


Let me see you lose yourself

by orphan_account



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Baney!Bane, Dubious Consent, Evil!Talia, Feelings!Barsad, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pheromones, Porn With Plot, Revenge Sex, Rough Sex, Snarky!John, and oh my god all the feelings in the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:16:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Talia al-Ghul wants John Blake to suffer for all the trouble he's been causing for the League of Shadows, and she's going to use Bane to do it. But this is no ordinary revenge scheme; she wants John to be the instrument of his own torture.</p><p>And Barsad, well, he doesn't know why he cares so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first real non-PWP fanfiction so bear with me as I work out the kinks (heh!)  
> Feedback is more than welcome.  
> I really hope y'all enjoy!

One cannot deny Ra’s al Ghul’s heir anything, just as one could not deny Ra's al Ghul himself. 

Loyalty above all else, that is the first lesson.

He’s dedicated his entire life to this, and he’d be damned before he retracts on it now.

  .......but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like little more than an errand boy.

 “Barsad,” Dr. Crane oozes, opening his arm in welcome. “So good to see you again. I am very excited to show you the progress we’ve made on your little project.” Crane pats him on the shoulder jovially and Barsad tightens his jaw in distaste. If he touches him again Barsad will tear off his arm. 

“I hope for your sake, Crane, that whatever you’ve done here will work. Talia al-Ghul makes a dangerous enemy to those who do not return her favors.”

Crane doesn’t seem bothered at all by the implied threat. He smiles and turns to unlock the gated door behind him with his keycard.

“Barsad, my friend, you give me far too little credit.”

Crane leads him down a hallway, ambling casually as though he were strolling through a park rather than Gotham’s notorious insane asylum. “As you know, he was a little, shall we say, difficult, when you first brought him in, but I think you’ll be most pleased with his transformation. It’s undoubtedly my best work yet.”

They make a few turns, past a few more locked gates until they reach a small empty room. The florescent lighting and pure white walls, floor and ceiling give this place an unnerving clinical look. As someone who has lived his whole life in darkness, it puts Barsad ill at ease.  His face, however, betrays none of his discomfort.

 “What did you do?” Barsad asks. He doesn’t normally ask questions, but Crane’s is so bloody confident, Barsad doubts he’s bluffing.

 “Pheromone Hypersensitivity Induction.” Crane drawls, writing something on his clipboard.  “All mammals are, to some degree, influenced by pheromones. Humans like to think that we’re above all those instinctive drives, but the harsh truth is,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “We’re not.”

Crane motions towards two brutish-looking aids. “Patient number two thirty-seven, kindly bring him here, thank you.”

“The real challenge of course, was the specificity. Making the subject sensitive to only one other person’s pheromones?  Well. That was never attempted outside of lab rats. I had some doubts myself!  But once you can bypass certain ethical standards, it is truly amazing what the human body is capable of achieving.” 

Crane is silenced as John is hauled in by the aids, bound in padded hand and ankle cuffs. A long chain connects the ankle and wrist cuffs. Blake thrashes violently, cursing and trying to kick with his chained ankles.

“And how are we, this morning, John?” Crane asks monotonously, not looking up from his clipboard. “No more headaches, I hope?”

“Fuck you, Crane, that’s how I’m doing.  And you,” he growls. His face contorts once he recognizes Barsad as one of the men who had brought him to Arkham Asylum in the first place. “I know your face, you son of a bitch. I will fucking put you away till you rot.”

Crane clicks his tongue in displeasure. “August 20th. Patient is lucid, articulate and energetic, if somewhat aggressive” Crane enunciates each word slowly as he scribbles on his clipboard. “Recommendation: another dose of benzodiazepines at oh,” he checks his watch, “about two o’clock. Then perhaps a nap. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

 “I don’t know what you fuckers think you’re doing,” John seethes, “but you won’t get away with this.”

Barsad’s face remains neutral, but Dr. Crane’s dumb face is all but beaming.  “Now now, John,” Crane says condescendingly, eyebrows arched, “No need to be so rude to our guest. We’ve been over this. If you keep being so hostile I might have to send you in for electroconvulsive therapy, hmmmm?”

John thrashes. “Once this is over I will make sure that _I’ll_ be the one to watch _you_ fry.”

Mockingly, Crane makes a pained face and presses his hand to his chest, as though John’s words deeply hurt him, then turns to Barsad. “He’s a spitfire, this one. I think he has some undiagnosed antisocial tendencies stemming from his childhood that really ought to be addressed. But, lord knows, I _do_ love a challenge.”

John growls in anger and kicks out so hard he almost wrenches free of the two aids holding him back.

 “You said he’d be tame,” Barsad comments dryly.

A smug smile on splayed out over Crane’s face. “Well, then, why don’t we have a little demonstration?” Before he could object, the doctor takes a small spray bottle out of his lab coat pocket and mists Barsad’s neck with an odd smelling liquid.  He then steps out of Barsad’s way, waving one arm forward in John’s direction, as if to say _be my guest._

Barsad’s eyes narrow, but Crane’s self-satisfied face is undiminished. They stare at each other, challenging each other’s gaze, before Barsad breaks it off and moves slowly towards Blake.

Blake twists, his dark eyes flashing angrily as Barsad nears. “Don’t come near me. Don’t you dare fucking come near me. You’ll pay for this....” He growls, but his voice trails off at the end, and he stills a little. His nostrils flare and he swallows. He looks deeply confused. Collecting himself a little, Blake tries to shake off the henchmen again, but the movement is half-assed, like he wasn’t really trying anymore.

Barsad advances until he is only a few inches away. Blake’s eyes look out of focus, but his brow is furrowed in hazy bewilderment.  “Back off, “ he mumbles unconvincingly. He leans forward slightly into the spot where Crane had sprayed Barsad’s neck and breathes in shakily.  It takes Barsad by surprise, which doesn’t often happen.

Barsad doesn’t want to admit it, but Blake looks......rather beautiful like this.

Cautiously, Barsad raises a hand to Blake’s face and thumbs his lower lip. Blake seems to sigh a little, nuzzling into it, eyes fluttering closed. It sends an unexpected pulse of heat straight to the bottom of Barsad’s stomach - he finds that surprising too. He _hates_ surprises.

“Well....?” Crane says behind him, breaking the silence. He sounds like he already knows he’s more than satisfied his end of the bargain. That pretentious asshole.

Barsad pulls away suddenly, leaving John a bit breathless.  “It’ll do,” he says.

\---

Like most of what Barsad does, this whole thing had been Talia’s idea.

“Does Bane take lovers?” She had asked abruptly, some weeks before.

Barsad purses his lips. He’s at Bane’s side constantly, has his routines and quirks and habits memorized, but it is Talia who _knows_ him best. 

“No,” he says slowly. “Bane takes victims.”

Talia laughs, as though this was the answer she suspected. “My poor friend,” she sighs. “We should try to remedy that. Bane is not above the basest needs of men, he craves the soft caress of a willing lover.” She pauses, and for a split second Barsad thinks he sees longing on her face. “Gordon’s favorite, John Blake. What about him? He’s pretty enough.”

Barsad lets out a breath (that’s about as close to laughing as he gets). He knows of the young cop, tracked his movements around Gotham. He had been stirring up trouble for their cause lately – staging rescues for the police officers trapped underground, the proverbial fly in their ointment. It was annoying Talia to no end; no doubt she wants him out of the way. Moreover, Barsad thinks, she wants to _punish_ him, humiliate him, make him suffer before she ends his miserable life. She’s unbearably cunning, cruel and merciless: the flesh and blood of Ra’s al-Ghul himself.  But to use Blake as an eager bed warmer for Bane?  John Blake, the bright, spirited, altruistic, doggedly-committed-to-Gordon rookie police officer? _No way would he go to Bane’s bed willingly._

Talia reads the disbelief on his face like an open book. “You mustn’t be so cynical, brother. I’m told there is a way.” Her eyes glint malevolently, “But I need someone to go fetch him.”

 _And that someone will be you_ , she doesn’t say.

\---

John is led into a room thrashing wildly, but fuck it all if he’s going to make it _easy_ for them. He must be in one of the abandoned downtown luxury hotels, the penthouse suite by the looks of it. _Huh. This might be my one and only chance to ever set foot in a room this nice._ His mind had been reeling ever since that, that _thing_ happened to him back at Arkham.  What the fuck was that? He must have had some kind of aneurysm, because did he actually suck a little on that terrorist’s thumb? He can’t quite remember; his memory from the last few weeks has been foggy. He hopes whatever happened had nothing to do with the fact that Crane had kept him sedated or downright put under for the duration of his stay – days, weeks? – at the asylum.

That terrorist whose thumb he maybe might’ve sucked (ugh), _Barsad_ , is there with a woman who looks vaguely familiar but whose face John can’t quite place. The armed men release him, but he doesn’t attack right away, even though his hands aren’t bound. He had been a little too impulsive last time he’d faced off against Barsad, underestimated him, _and look where that got me._ John wouldn’t make the same mistake again, his pride wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t let Gordon down again. He eyes them both warily, waiting for their next move.

The woman smiles at him. “John,” she sounds as though they’d been friends for years, although her tone is slightly patronizing. “Poppet. Come here.” She motions forward, as if John were a dog.

John bristles at her tone and doesn’t budge.  Instead, he puffs his chest and tilts his chin up in a showy display of confidence that belied how nervous he actually felt. “What do you want? Am I done being Crane’s little science project yet? Well let me tell you something, if you’re looking for information, you can guess a-fucking-gain, I don’t care if you torture me or electrify me or whatever, I’m not telling you anything.”

She laughs, but the sound is cold and hollow. “No, no, of course not, John. We are all friends here, yes? We’re not here to hurt you. In fact, it is my deepest wish that you _enjoy yourself.”_  There is a hint of malice under that sultry voice that John doesn’t like, and the way she enunciates the last two words makes John’s skin crawl.

Goddamn, she looks so familiar. John has a feeling this will be one of those things he’ll remember at three in the morning when he’s still awake and can’t sleep. “Friends, huh? I have a policy of not being friends with terrorists, so fuck you. If you want to kill me just do it already, enough with...with whatever it is you’re doing with me.”

She pouts. She would be beautiful if she didn’t look so calculating. “You don’t remember me, John? Because I remember you. I suppose I did not make a big enough impression on you the first time.” She takes a few confident steps forward.  “Something tells me you will not forget me after this.”

The woman turns to her companion jovially. “Shall we begin?”

Barsad advances towards John, who adopts a fighting stance in preparation. No way is he going down without a fight. Barsad is wearing some kind of Kevlar body armor, which makes John - in a T-shirt and jeans – feel uncomfortably vulnerable. But John is wild – he’ll fight like a frenzied animal if it means he could be even a little bit of an inconvenience.

Barsad approaches cautiously, his eyes full of steely resolve. It’s John who swings first, but Barsad ducks, catching his wrist and twisting it painfully. Damn, he’s _fast_. John grunts and breaks free, shaking the pain in his wrist out.

“Come on, John, you can do better than that,” he hears the woman taunt. “Or are all Gotham’s police officers as incompetent as you?”

_Bitch._

John growls in fury and lunges at Barsad again, but Barsad dodges him, using his body weight against him expertly and manoeuvring himself so he catches John from behind and forces him into a chokehold.  _Great._  John squirms, but Barsad’s hold is firm. They struggle for a few minutes; he’s starting to have difficulty breathing and his head feels light. Distantly, he hears the woman’s footsteps approach them.

When he opens his eyes, she’s close, and her face is set in a snarl.

“Know my face, John Blake. I am Talia al-Ghul, true heir of Ra’s al-Ghul, and once Gotham falls you will be calling me Master.”

 _Talia.....Talia......al-Ghul?_ That doesn’t sound familiar at all. Her self-assured tone is making him uneasy.

She looks over John’s shoulder, presumably at Barsad, and nods.

Barsad’s got something in his hand, some kind of dirty looking cloth, and he smothers it over John’s nose and mouth.

Barsad releases his throat a little and John gasps, breathing in deeply, and suddenly he feels lightheaded for a different reason. _Fuck, not this again._ Something is definitely wrong with him.......

”What are you doing to me?” he chokes out, but it’s muffled through the cloth.  John can’t really describe it, he just feels so _intoxicated_ , he can’t think straight. He’s overcome with an urge to give in, to just breathe in that scent and let his mind go blank. To sink into the warm body behind him in bliss. 

He opens his hooded eyes and sees Talia, utterly transfixed _.  “Remarkable....”_

Barsad easily walks him over to a bed and pushes him face first into the mattress. In the back of his mind John knows it’s important to struggle.  Fight this, fight them, bite and spit and thrash and kick. He tries, weakly, but he’s too dizzy to be effective. He feels the weight of Barsad’s warm body against his back and it’s just so _right._ His mind loosely registers his jeans being tugged down, but he can’t bring himself to care.

\---

Barsad marvels how easily Blake goes down once he’s been gagged with Bane’s shirt.  So pliable, it’s unreal. Crane may be a sleazy bastard, but he fucking _delivers_. Blake squirms weakly, trying to escape, but Barsad effortlessly pins him down.  He feels his cock stir when John wriggles underneath him. He’s not as surprised at his body’s reaction this time, but that doesn’t make it any more welcome.

It doesn’t help that the night before he had dreamt of his fingertips at Blake’s pink lips.

“Well? Prep him, already. He’ll be here soon.” Talia says somewhat impatiently.

Barsad grunts, reaching around John to undo the front button of his jeans.  With one hand between John’s shoulder blades to keep him in place, he pulls John’s jeans down just enough to reveal his the creamy smooth skin of his ass.  

He’s perfect.  

It’s getting harder and harder to keep looking unaffected.

Talia sits on the edge of the bed next to them, watching intently, eyes bright and mischievous.

“Here,” she says, “Give me your hand.” Barsad does, and she dribbles lube onto it. Their eyes meet for a few moments, and it’s like she can read every secret and fantasy he’s ever had.  

Barsad turns his attention to Blake and runs his hand down his lower back and down his ass till his slick fingers reach his hole. He thumbs it lightly, watching the muscle clench and release.  Blake writhes, as though his whole body is sensitized just by a touch to that little bundle of nerve endings.  

“What are you waiting for? Do it.” Talia orders, and Barsad dutifully presses a finger in until the ring of muscle yields. Blake moans, docile, face still pressed in Bane’s shirt. He’s so hot and tight it makes Barsad’s head swim. He thrusts it in and out a few times, coating Blake’s insides for his master’s pleasure.

“More, give him more,” Talia hisses, and he adds another finger, stroking the rim with his thumb.

Blake clenches about him, and much to his chagrin, Barsad’s cock responds eagerly.  It takes all his willpower to keep at his task, although it doesn’t help that Blake is rocking his hips back, panting softly, and gripping the bedspread beneath him like he was clinging to dear life. So, so willing.....

Barsad is a controlled man, a disciplined man. He can go days without food or sleep. He resists all material frivolity; he is loyal to a fault. But now, in this moment he has never felt so tempted to just damn everything and sink his cock into that tight heat. He feels Talia’s eyes on him. _She knows._

_Pull yourself together, damn it._

“You like that, hmmmm, sweetheart?” Talia coos, stroking the soft skin of Blake’s neck. She’s clearly speaking to Blake, but somehow Barsad feels like she’s directing it to him too. “I’m going to show you exactly what happens to little boys who go poking their noses about where they don’t belong.”   

Barsad suddenly feels the barest hint of pity for Blake. Talia is a dangerous enemy, cruel and shrewd; any slight against her is reciprocated tenfold.

As if in compensation for what’s about to happen to him, Barsad stretches his fingers inside Blake, trying to loosen him up a little. Bane would tear him to shreds if Blake wasn’t made ready for him, that’s for certain. Although, Barsad thinks, John _is_ their enemy, interfering in Gotham’s purge; if Bane fucks him raw, he’d deserve it.  He ought to be raped until Bane inevitably grows impatient and snaps his delicate little neck. Knowing Talia, she’d probably film it and send it to Gordon.

So why does he bother?  Why would he care if Bane hurts him? Barsad pushes this to the back of his mind. It doesn’t matter, _shouldn’t_ matter - Blake isn’t his to take anyway.

And yet.....

 He curls his fingers deep inside and Blake shudders violently, humping his hips back on Barsad’s fingers and moaning wantonly. Barsad lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Talia hums in obvious satisfaction.  It’s becoming more and more apparent that this whole operation is less about Bane’s pleasure than it is about hers.

Barsad is, to put it mildly, taken aback when she reaches down between her legs and unabashedly rubs herself a few times. She smiles sadistically, her dark eyes glinting with pleasure. It’s absolutely surreal to see her like this. Barsad knows she can read the surprise on his face, and if there is one thing he hates more than surprises, it’s having others _know_ he’s surprised. Is he even allowed to look? Does she want him to?

He tries to ignore her and focus on Blake, which is not that difficult. Barsad doesn’t think he’s ever touched someone as lovely as this. It would be a shame if Bane tore him to pieces – if only because John is too pretty to spoil. Yes. That’s as good a reason as any. Best to make sure he is properly readied; maybe then he won’t have to suffer too badly at Bane’s hands.

Barsad runs his other hand down Blake’s side, up under his t-shirt in a way that maybe Blake might find soothing. Barsad himself is a little surprised at his own tenderness.

 Talia allows Barsad’s ministrations to continue for a few more moments until he’s so hard he can’t help but buck his hips forwards slightly in time with Blake’s.

“Enough, brother.” she commands, and Barsad hesitantly withdraws his fingers, collects himself, and pulls back, leaving Blake writhing on the bed. Breaking away from that warm body is harder than Barsad is willing to acknowledge.

Meanwhile, Talia tugs Blake’s jeans back up and rolls him over onto his back. She slides one long leg over him to straddle him. Blake’s face looks totally wrecked, eyes glazed, panting, cheeks rosy. He’s hard from being fingered, Barsad notices. _Hard from me._

Barsad’s cock throbs.

“What a lovely little thing you are,” Talia says, gripping him by the chin. She grinds herself down slowly atop Blake and John groans. “I’m going to have him _destroy you.”_ Talia slaps Blake across the face viciously, hard enough to make his head whip to one side.

The slap seemed to wake Blake up somewhat; without the steady dose of pheromones from the shirt his arousal is beginning to wear off.

Talia climbs off him and stands next to the bed, tucking her jacket down and smoothing out her hair. She’s all business again; as if she hadn’t been just dry humping Blake into the mattress. Barsad is slightly jealous of her composure – he’s so pulsing with need it _hurts._

“He’s coming,” she says curtly. Best to trust her on this - it’s like she has a sixth sense when it comes to Bane.

Barsad turns to leave, eager to go jerk off and be done with it, but she stops him with an insistent hand on his chest. “Stay, brother,” she says. “I want you to enjoy this as much as I intend to.” Barsad keeps his face neutral. He nods. One cannot refuse Ra’s al-Ghul’s heir, just as one could not refuse Ra's al-Ghul himself.

Blake sits up groggily and swipes his hand down his flushed, wet face, as if he’s willing himself to wake up. He edges himself off the bed to a standing position, but his legs are shaky and he has to steady himself with one hand on the bedpost. His anger is beginning to resurface, but this time Barsad can see cracks in his fierce facade. He’s afraid now.

“Did you drug me?” he chokes out. “Rohypnal, Chloroform, Valium, what? You sick fucks.”

Talia smiles brightly. “No, sweetheart.  That would be too easy.”  She steps towards him and grabs him by the hair and drags him to the centre of the room, throwing him to the floor with a strength and brutality that is truly awesome to behold, even for a hardened warrior like Barsad.  Blake’s still pretty disoriented and he lands hard.  He tries to pick himself off of the floor, but Talia kicks him in the solar plexus and he drops, coughing and wincing in pain.

“Your punishment must be more severe,” she snarls.

\---

John remembers landing on the hardwood, breathless, pain throbbing all over his body. His limbs felt so goddamn noodly. Fuck. He’s a better fighter than this, what the fuck is his problem? It’s gotta be drugs. What else could it be?

They’re messing with him somehow, because he’s still half-hard from....from that. _Being fingered_. His face burns with humiliation to think that he just lay there and _took it._ He’s doesn’t know what came over him, and fuck, he hated himself for responding like that. And now all he can feel is an uncomfortable slickness between his legs, _inside_ , _Jesus,_ that makes him feel dirty and disgusting and sick to his stomach. Worst of all, he’s scared.  Terrified even, and he’s sure that they can see it in his face. They’re doing something to him to make him lose control of himself like that.

Moreover, he doubts they’re done with him. 

The woman, Talia is definitely someone he’s met before, but he just can’t remember when or where that was.  This feels important and John wills himself to _think_ , but his mind is too hazy to even try.

_Well, I hope whatever I did to piss her off is way worse than what she’s doing to me........ if that’s even possible._

_He’s coming,_ she had said. A knot of dread forms in his stomach.  

It’s stiflingly silent but then he hears heavy footsteps approaching and he _knows._ He wants to look up, but he’s afraid that once he does it’ll confirm his deepest fear. They get louder and John could almost feel the vibrations through the floor. Massive combat boots stop just before him and then –

_Oh god._


	2. Chapter 2

It’s overpowering, washing over him like a tidal wave, far stronger than before - pure musk, strong and pungent. He feels that familiar _want_ settle into the pit of his stomach, overwhelming his senses and his rational mind. Everything else just doesn’t seem to matter.

He looks up finally.

 Bane, Gotham’s reckoning, the masked terrorist himself, is towering over him, eyeing him curiously. Even in his fevered state John remembers seeing him on television that time he had blown up the football stadium and snapped that scientist’s neck like it was nothing. John’s heart thumps audibly in his chest; he’s fucking enormous, pure muscle, _pure maleness,_ Jesus Christ. His mask makes him look like a snarling animal.

“What have we here?” Bane mumbles, voice hard like concrete and distorted through his weird mask. He reaches down and cups John’s chin so that he could inspect John’s face. His touch is like a rush of endorphins.

“A gift for you, my love,” Talia steps forward. Her voice has none of the edge it had when she was speaking to John earlier. “To give you comfort. Take your pleasure in him, for he is willing.”

Bane lets out a low growl.

_No, no no no. This can’t be happening._

Distantly, John knows that he needs to pick himself off the floor and make a break for it, escape or die trying, but he feels rooted to the floor. Moreover, he doesn’t really _want_ to run away, not when he’s so close, so very very close. The less distance between them, the better, actually.   He wants to nuzzle against that scarred flesh and never let go. _Bane! The murdering terrorist, what the fuck?_ Yes. He wants to press against him, taste him, have Bane move inside him.......

 _Fuck fuck FUCK._ John’s head spins. _Wake up, wake up....c’mon. You can do this...._

“I know your face,”Bane says thoughtfully.

Bane brings two fingers up to John’s lips, and before he can think, he takes them into his mouth and sucks greedily. The taste is overpowering. It just feels so _right_ , they might as well send him back to Arkham because he must be going crazy. He’s already rolling his hips across his ankles wantonly, fucking nothing. God, he has never felt horny like this in his life. Wait, scratch that. Horny doesn’t even really describe the scope of it – more of a deep, unrelenting _craving_ in the basest part of his brain. It makes him feel disgusting.

“John Blake.”Bane pulls his wet fingers out and rubs John’s cheek tenderly with his knuckle. It makes John shiver with anticipation.

“....One of Gordon’s little lackeys, he’s been stirring up trouble lately.....” Talia says, ruffling John’s hair affectionately, “.....but I think he’s ready to be good now, aren’t you, pet?”

_Yes, so good. I’ll be so good for you._

_Wait, what?_

Talia pushes Bane back gently into a nearby armchair, and Bane lowers himself without any resistance. When she gazes at him, it’s full of perfect admiration, but her face hardens once she turns towards John. “Come here.” She beckons to John with two fingers like before, but this time, John obediently shuffles towards them.  As he nears, Bane draws his head in with one hand so that he ends up kneeling between Bane’s massive tree trunk legs.  Talia smirks. “He crawls to you like a bitch in heat.”

Ordinarily John would have punched anyone who said that to him in the face, man or woman, but he’s not himself anymore. He doesn’t care about anything else besides being close to Bane _._ John mouths at Bane’s cock through his fatigues and Bane growls a little in response. Bane’s getting hard, and it’s making John _hungry_ in a way he’s never felt before.

“See how easy he goes to his knees? The little slut is just desperate for your cock, my love,” Talia says, enjoying every minute of John’s degradation.

_Yeah, I am._

 “Go on then, darling. Let’s see just what a good boy you are. Say it.”

John can’t even stop himself. “Yes. I’ll be good, so good.” He hates himself.

He’s chalking this up to some sort of voodoo curse or drug-induced delirium, because John Blake, GCPD, should _not_ be reaching up to undo the front of Bane’s fatigues to free his cock right now. _Fuck,_ he’s huge – or rather, John supposes, proportionate.  His fingers don’t even meet around it. Shakily, John strokes it a few times, earning a low growl from Bane. He’s almost mesmerized by the feel of flesh rolling in his hand, how the tip pokes out with each downwards stroke.

The urge to taste it is unbearable.

 Keeping his hands around the base, he swipes his tongue over the tip experimentally. It’s salty and hot, _masculine_ , and it just feels so, so _right. God,_ He needs this.

He sinks down onto Bane’s prick like he is starving, lips stretching obscenely around it. He can’t get very much in before his gag reflex starts to object, so he works his hands around the base in tandem with his mouth. He’s never given head to a man before, _let alone a murdering terrorist, Jesus,_ so he’s not really sure if he’s doing it right.

John’s achingly hard again now, but he doesn’t dare jerk off while his hands are busy at the base of Bane’s cock. Or rather, he feels like he doesn’t have _permission_ to touch himself. Instead, he positions himself between one of Bane’s shins and rubs himself against it as he takes the terrorist’s cock down his throat. The friction is so delicious that he moans lewdly around Bane’s prick.

Bane’s hand rests lightly on his head, toying with his hair. Crazily, John wonders if he’s any good at this – it’s his first time, after all –  he’s maybe a little too eager and sloppy to get Bane off properly. It’s encouraging that Bane’s rock hard, anyways. He’s patient enough with John’s lack of finesse, and when John dares to look up at him, he finds Bane’s steely blue eyes locked on his. It makes his breath hitch.

It’s unnerving just how badly John finds he wants to please him.

John sinks lower and mouths at Bane’s balls before brazenly licking a wet trail all the way up his cock. He sucks at the head again, getting ready to take it down again, then –

He feels firm pressure on his head for the first time, forcing him down roughly. His mouth is stretched so wide that it’s a struggle to keep his teeth in check. He’s held there, immobile, for a few seconds, but it feels like much longer. Every time he tries to pull back and take a breath, the hand twists around his hair, shaking his head violently in reproach.  Bane’s cock rubs at the back of his throat, and it’s _too much_. He can’t breathe, he’s choking. He tries to brace himself with his hands, but the pressure is relentless, and John feels a flutter of panic. _I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Please......._

As soon as the pressure subsides John recoils, gagging and rubbing at his aching jaw.  He coughs until his eyes water.  Spit and precome dribble down his chin obscenely.

 When he looks up, Bane’ face is unreadable. Talia, however, exudes malicious satisfaction.

Of course. The hand gripping his hair felt too small to be Bane’s.

Though his cloudy mind, John realizes Bane’s not the one he should be afraid of.

\---

_Why am I here._

_Is she trying to punish me too?_

Barsad tries to think if he’s offended Talia in some way, because watching this is _torture._ How Blake kneels between Bane’s legs, then _grinds_ against him, fuck, it’s like the best (worst) kind of porn. And even if he looks away, he can’t escape those wet, pornographic sounds Blake’s making as he sucks Bane’s cock.

When Talia forces Blake down and chokes him, Barsad has the unexpected urge to intervene. He’s surprised by this burst of compassion (today is full of surprises) but he swallows it down and clenches his jaw.

Barsad is many things – pragmatic, utilitarian, maybe even callous – but a good man is not one of them. He has committed unspeakable things in the name of the greater good. The ends justify the means, always. Gotham must die so that the balance can be restored. It’s inevitable that some unfortunate souls get caught in the middle.

That’s what he tells himself, anyways, as Blake gags until tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.

_Come on, he’s had enough, Jesus._

Talia releases him, finally, and Blake sits back on his heels, coughing hysterically. Barsad looks down and notices he’s been clenching his fist so hard it’s left tiny half-moon indentations on his palm.

\---

“So who are you, anyways? Part of Bane’s army? Some low rank, minion, errand boy come to do the chores no one else wants?”

Barsad raises his eyebrows. Blake’s in no position to be so cocky, not when he’s handcuffed in the backseat of an old cop car, being hauled to God knows where, for God knows what reasons.

_Errand boy. You can say that again._

“Something like that.”

Blake is about to say something snarky, but then Barsad pulls up into one of the check stops Bane’s men have set up around Gotham. The men outside wave him through with a nod of deference; a few even salute him. Barsad barely slows down.

“Oh. So you’re a _glorified_ errand boy.” Blake revises.

Barsad breathes out a little through his nose. Crane’s pheromones have worn off by now, and Blake is back to being as much of an inconvenience as possible. Barsad wonders if he could ask Crane for that spray bottle back, then maybe Blake wouldn’t be so goddamn _difficult_ during his transport.

There is a long uncomfortable silence. Uncomfortable for Blake, anyways. Barsad's used to not talking.

“I don’t like you,” Blake blurts out suddenly.

Barsad peers at him through the rear view mirror. “Oh?”

“I mean, what happened back there, I don’t know what the fuck that was, but I don’t like you. In fact, I’m going to kill you. No seriously, I will put a bullet through your brain one day, you and Crane’s.” John says with great finality, leaning forwards towards the grill that separated him from the front seat.

“Alright then,” Barsad says, and John grunts in annoyance.

“Alright then? That’s it?”

Barsad shrugs. “Yes, alright, I wouldn’t blame you.”

John seems taken aback, but hides it. “Yeah, you should be afraid. Because once the Batman comes back, him and Gordon are gonna fuck your shit up. Just you wait.”

“And you too, you’ll ‘fuck my shit up’?”

Blake growls. “Yes! Fuck. I will put a...”

“...bullet in my brain, yes, I got that.” Barsad finishes, secretly relishing Blake’s frustration.

John gives up with a huff, sits back and looks out the window. He’s quiet for a few blocks, but his body language is almost screamingly loud. He fidgets, leg vibrating restlessly.

“I have a cop car like this.” he rambles, “When I'm working with the GCPD. I call her Betsy, that’s kind of a dumb name for a cop car – it was my partner’s idea. It just kinda stuck after awhile.  We’d say, “Hey, let’s go patrol 97th street, Betsy’s looking for some hot action,” or some shit like that. Yeah, har har, it's not even that funny. I know. It was just so fucking dumb to call a cop car Betsy and not, like.... I dunno. Clint.” Blake snorts, then pauses, thoughtful. “Usually, though, I sit in the front.”

Barsad doesn’t smile, doesn’t acknowledge anything Blake’s said – he never gives anything away to his enemies - but his eyes crease ever so slightly at the corners.

“Say something,” Blake says suddenly.

“What?”

“Say something, anything, just – “Blake says, voice laced with the barest hint of a plea – “-just tell me what are you going to do with me?”

Something about it makes Barsad crack a little.

“It is not my place.” he says.

Blake sighs. “Your name then? At least?”

Barsad looks back into the mirror briefly, into John’s bottomless dark eyes.

“Barsad.”

\---

Once John catches his breath somewhat, he’s numbly aware of Talia coming towards him. _Not her, please. Not her._ The heady taste of Bane’s cock is still on his lips, clogging his thoughts; if only he could _think._

“What a show you put on, sweetheart. Lips like yours were made to suck cock.” she grabs the bottom of his t-shirt, “But I think it’s time for tonight’s feature presentation.” She tugs it up over his head, and Blake’s too damn dizzy to resist. 

She then reaches down again pulls him up by his bicep.  He stands up as she prompts him, if somewhat ungracefully.  He feels her fingers pawing at his jeans.

He collects himself a bit, and tries to brush her off. “No,” he chokes out.

She raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow at him, then backhands him across the face. John reels, barely keeping himself upright.

“Don’t be such a party pooper, John.” She says crisply and jerks his jeans down. He’s totally exposed now, and it makes his cheeks burn hotly. He hears Bane rumble and it does nothing to ease his frayed nerves.

Talia grabs his dick, still hard, and strokes it a few times.  It makes John’s head swim.

Keeping one booted foot on the jeans around John’s ankles, Talia pushes him back towards Bane. John has to step out of them completely to avoid falling on his face – he’s totally naked now. Somehow he finds himself sprawled inelegantly over Bane’s lap, one knee resting on the armchair seat beside Bane’s thigh.

This close, John can’t help but breathe in Bane’s scent and moan.

Bane peers at him through that mask.

“Are you willing, John?” He says, low and predatory. He strokes John’s cheek.

_No._

“Yes.” John says, writhing a little in Bane’s lap.

“You will allow me to use your body in any way I choose?”

_No no no....._

“Yes, God, anything.” John says, breathless.

Bane hums in approval. He runs his massive hands and up and down John’s flank, leaving goose bumps in its wake. He settles himself back into the plush armchair.

“Then I will have you ride me.”

Inside John’s head, he’s screaming, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from moving to comply.

John brings his other leg up so that he is fully straddling him. Hysterically, it reminds him of a rodeo he once watched on television. The bull was penned in on all sides by the starting gate – two thousand pounds of sheer muscle and restrained power just itching to be released – while the hapless cowboy sitting atop it could do nothing more than just hold on for dear life and hope for the best.

Yeah. Story of his life.

He fists the fabric of Bane’s shirt with one hand to steady himself and uses the other to reach back and grab Bane’s prick, still hot, heavy and rock hard. Aligning it with his slick hole, he sinks down a little.

_This will hurt. This will hurt and I have to breathe, relax relax rela....AH._

It’s splitting him open, unrelenting, _fuck fuck fuck, he’s going to tear me in two._ Pain courses through his body, and he’s sure his face is twisted in pain. But at the same time, he wants this so fucking badly.   _Needs_ it. The pain, the pleasure, _anything,_ as long as he can have Bane inside him. He wants to be good, so so good, to please Bane....

John is grateful that Bane doesn’t move, because if he thrusts up now John’s sure he will rip him to shreds.

_Please be patient, please._

John sinks down lower, until he’s almost taken it all, the pulls back, panting. He’s ashamed at the pathetic whimper that escapes his lips, but then again, it’s probably warranted under these circumstances. He’s willing himself not to open his eyes, not to see Bane’s scowling mask and searing eyes mere inches from his face. To do so would be like acknowledging his failure to resist.

He begins to work himself open, trying to ease up and down. He feels so full, like Bane’s breaching his very _core._  Stretched wide and filled, almost to the point where he can’t bear it anymore.

“Yes,” Talia hisses from somewhere behind him. “That’s it. Take it, whore.”

He knows he should hate this, but the feeling of Bane’s meaty hands running down his chest and thighs is excruciatingly euphoric. The nagging, rational part of John’s mind is becoming too distant to hear; now there is only the overwhelming urge to just _fuck._

And he does. Up and down, rocking his hips, hands gripping Bane’s solid shoulders for support.  He can’t think straight, not when Bane rubs at his insides _just so,_ just at that part of him that’s still tender from before.  John leans down and places wet, messy kisses along Bane’s jaw and throat. It’s warm and musky there and John can feel Bane’s low throaty growls vibrate against his lips. John’s so lightheaded that suddenly it’s not so unreasonable to think that maybe Bane sweats morphine or something. He’s still hard, terrifyingly so, but doesn’t venture to stroke himself, and neither does Bane. Instead, he grinds himself down on Bane’s cock, aching for him to hit that spot again, and it’s good, it’s _so good....._

“Give it to him, my love, fuck him, fuck him raw.....”

Bane grunts. He’s starting to lose patience now; he’s had enough of John’s tender lovemaking. He grabs John’s hips in a bruising grip and forces him down just as he thrusts up, making John gasp in surprise. It hurts, but John doesn’t even care. Bane does it again and again and again until John is sure he’s close.

_Yes, come, God, please come. Come inside me, fill me up, fuck....._

John comes first, shuddering as the first pulses of orgasm wash over him. He cries out and throws his head back in ecstasy, riding out the waves of pleasure while Bane fucks him through it. Bane comes with a mighty roar not long after, spilling his release deep inside John. John collapses on top of him, chest heaving. His mind goes dark to the sound of Talia’s cruel laughter.

\---

Once John began to really lose himself, Barsad looks away. He’s still mind-numbingly hard, but refuses to do anything about it - not that Talia or Bane would care one way or another.

He’s not an envious man,  there was just something about the long curve of Blake’s elegant neck and his dark hooded eyes that made Barsad’s head fog.

 _No,_ he chastises himself.

Such thoughts do him no good.

\---                                                                 

John wakes up some time later, fully dressed, in what looks like an old hotel room. It’s furnished with the typical hotel room staples, but all the pictures, desktop items and decorations are gone. His head throbs, to say nothing of the ache.... _down there._ He still feels the stickiness coating his thighs and it makes him want to retch.

John shuffles toward the door. The dead bolt has been removed so that John can’t bar the door from the inside.   _Not that that would be able to stop them if I did._ He expects to find the door locked, but when he turns the handle, it gives easily.  John opens it a crack and pokes his head out. There is one solitary guard with an AK-47 standing across the hall from him, smoking idly. When he sees John, he smiles and makes two kiss kiss noises.

John closes the door.

Too exhausted to try to escape, he makes his way towards the shower and peels off his clothes  Turning it as hot as it gets, John steps in and allows the scalding water to burn away the memory of the night before.

Afterwards, he lies back on the bed and stares blankly at the ceiling.  It is only then, when the numbness finally gives way to the crushing weight on his chest, that John begins to cry.

\---

Barsad strides down the wing of the hotel they’d been using for makeshift  cells. Over the years, he’s come to craft his body language in order to convey exactly the right message without the cumbersome necessity of words. This particular walk says, _I’m doing official business, do not interfere_ , yet it’s still somewhat casual, as if to say, _I have everything completely under control._

Neither of which are true, per se.

On the first count, no, he wasn’t technically sent here by Bane or Talia, but then, nobody would really question his actions. Nobody ever doubts his loyalty to the League of Shadows, not that they should anyway. He’s dedicated his life to it: body, mind, _soul._ Purging Gotham from the face of the earth is a necessity, and he is the instrument of its demise.

On the second count, well. Barsad has never felt so out of control in his life.

Collecting himself, Barsad knocks once, twice, three times on the door. He doesn’t know why he bothers with this superfluous act of courtesy – it’s not like he owes John a warning, and furthermore, if John’s in some state of undress, it’s nothing Barsad hasn’t already seen.

....and come back to in his mind over and over again.....

_Stop._

Still, he knocks, and waits for a few seconds. All is quiet on the other side. Barsad opens the door.

John’s lying on the bed, cocooned in blankets, as if he’s constructed a protective shell for himself. A tray of food sits untouched on the desk. At the sound of approaching footsteps, John sits upright, braced for a fight, but the tension in his shoulders dissipates when he sees who it is.  Almost like he’s already given up.

John doesn’t stop eyeing him warily, however. His eyes are revealingly puffy.

 “You here to deliver me somewhere?” John asks wearily, “Errand boy?”

“No,” Barsad says.

John seems relieved for the barest second, but then he stiffens again.

 “You want a go too, then?” John spits.

Barsad keeps his face neutral; it’s what he’s best at. “No.”

“Then what, why are you here?”

_Good question._

 John swipes a hand over his face in frustration. “Listen, could you please stop fucking with me, Barsad. I’m not-”

“I brought you something,” Barsad says suddenly. _Sheepishly._

John narrows his eyes as Barsad reaches into his bag and pulls out a small tube.

“Here. Take it.” he says with finality, offering the lube to John.

John freezes, color rising to his cheeks.

“John, take it.” he repeats when John doesn’t react, willing John to accept it.

 Barsad adds, much more softly than before: “Bane is not a patient man.”

John’s eyes are getting glassy, shoulders slumped in defeat, as though the reality of his purpose here was made all-too apparent. Wordlessly, he reaches out and accepts it, toying with it in his lap despondently. His eyes are downcast, but it almost looks like he nods his head a little.

For some reason, Barsad’s guts lurch. It’s an unfamiliar sensation.

He turns on his heels and leaves before either of them can say anything more.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

John could swear something was off tonight. He has a sixth sense for these kinds of things, a leftover instinct he’d developed in light of the circumstances in which he grew up. And yes, okay, he’s fucking paranoid too. But who wouldn’t be, if you’re undermining a vast terrorist organization hell-bent on world domination? Damn, it sounds so cliché when you say it like that. Truth is, John doesn’t even know what it is they’re trying to accomplish, but he wouldn't be surprised if it involves some kind of world domination scheme. He doesn’t buy the whole “freeing” Gotham thing, not by a long shot. Free Gotham, ha. By what? Blowing up a football stadium, freeing all the prisoners in Blackgate prison, ransacking the downtown skyscrapers? They could do with a proper manifesto or something.

Speaking of said undermining, he hadn’t had the most successful of nights – no bad guys shot, no cops freed, nothing. But John doesn’t consider his time wasted, not when he’s got information to bring back to Gordon. The terrorists have a supply ship docking in Gotham’s port, and they’re unloading ominous-looking crates with inexorable efficiency. John couldn’t do much to sabotage them tonight – there was too many of them with far too many AK-47s for his liking – but maybe he’ll come back with a grenade launcher and blow this place to smithereens, but preferably not before he spouts some witty one-liner like they do in movies. And the most important part: walking away from the explosion in slow-motion without looking backwards.

John Blake: GCP-Fucking D.  He’s going to give Batman a run for his money.

Ok, well, yes. He has delusions of grandeur and is entirely susceptible to fantasy. Can he help it if he has an over active imagination?

Tomorrow night will be better. Realistically, it would be an accomplishment just to rescue one police officer.

He turns around and sees a lone guy following him some ways away, but he brushes it off. He’s a suspicious bastard, yes, but it’s not like he can’t take care of himself.

He turns towards the lot where he’s parked his shitty car. To any outside observer, he looks like some schmuck trying to get from A to B with as little human contact as possible - just the ordinary-looking type who the terrorists are supposedly trying to “free”. He’s been lucky so far; had a couple of tense run-ins, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Even if something were to happen to him, it would be worth it just to cause those fuckers a little bit of trouble.

His heart races a little faster when the dude makes the same turn as John does. John speeds up; so does his follower. _I guess it’s showtime._

“You got a problem buddy?” John shouts as he turns around. He puffs himself up in his jacket, trying to make himself look more bulky than he actually is. He doesn’t reach for his gun just yet – this might just be a misunderstanding.

 The guy just stares back at him blankly. He’s scruffy looking with angular features and searing blue eyes. John mentally makes a note of him so that he could pick out this fucker in a line-up if need be.

“John Blake.” He says. It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

John’s heart thumps.

_How does he know my name?_

“Do I know you?” John says, keeping his voice steady.

The man says nothing: He charges.

John’s reaching for his gun, but by the time he is able to fire it the guy has halved the distance in between them. He runs in a crazy zig-zag pattern, unpredictable.  John manages to hit him in the chest at close range - at least he _thinks_ he’s hit him - but this guy barely falters. _Kevlar armor._ Once he’s in arm’s reach, he grabs John’s gun, wrenching it painfully from his wrist. John has no choice but to let go.

This guy is fucking _fast._ He fights in a focused, self-controlled way, deflecting John’s strikes like he knows every fucking trick in the book before landing a perfectly executed blow to John’s head. John staggers, momentarily blinded, and the guy takes this opportunity to grab him. It is only then that John notices there’s a van nearby, one of those old, creepy 1980s windowless ones that just _screams_ serial killer, and John struggles more fiercely. This is _not_ how his fantasy bad-guy killing day-dreams play out.

“Oh no. No! Fuck!” He grunts, digging his heels into the concrete. There’s no way he’s getting in that thing.

Except shit, there are two more guys who hop out, descending on him like a pack of hyenas. They haul him inside with that same determined efficiency John saw at the dock. There is not a damn thing he can do about it. He wishes for a crazy moment that he and his partner worked together half as good as this. One guy’s got his ankles now, zip-tying them together, another is doing the same to his wrists. The first guy – Mr. Asshole Lightning Speed -  pats him down for more weapons, and removes his ammo cartridges, his combat knife _and_ his back up combat knife. Reaching into one of John’s pockets, he pulls out John’s GCPD badge and thumbs it thoughtfully. His eyes are unreadable.

They put a black sack over his head and John knows he has lost.

\---

Barsad stops in front of John’s door, noticing the flicker of light just underneath the door crack. It would have been imperceptible to anyone else, but Barsad is ever vigilant, ever watching, and is never caught off guard. Growing up hiding from the secret police will do that to a person. With a commanding hand gesture, Barsad silently signals to his two men to stay back a few paces: _I will take care of this_. He knocks, like he always does, and waits. Silence. The shadow underneath the door shifts to one side.

 John must think he is awfully clever.

Barsad opens the door inward, and peers into the seemingly empty hotel room. He’s not surprised when John attacks from his position behind the door, looping a torn-up piece of bed linen around Barsad’s neck and twisting it hard. It’s actually kind of a relief that he’s so animated today. Barsad was dreading having to come in here and see John like he was the last time he had visited. Barsad can handle hostility, he has his whole life. Give him a shower of bullets, a M-14 to the back of the skull, a knife gash to his ribs, a collapsed lung. A garrotte around his neck.

But tears?

Tears are the _worst._

 “How does it feel, you son of a bitch?” John hisses in his ear.

_Good. Good John, fight me._

John doesn’t notice when Barsad grips at his forearms.

Then, in one swift move, Barsad curls forwards, hurling John up over his back and slamming him onto the floor. John lands on his back, winded. If it were anyone else in any other situation, Barsad would have taken this time to smash their face in with one smooth, brutal downwards kick.

But Barsad doesn’t. Instead, he waits: it was a nice try, after all.

John hauls himself up, eyes bright and spirited, fists clenched in front of his face. He has clearly used these last few days to collect himself.

“Next time you plan on ambushing me from behind a door, turn off the lights first. Then your shadow won’t give you away.”  Barsad says.

Annoyed, John growls and lunges at Barsad. He’s too sloppy, emotional, predictable. Barsad deflects his blows expertly without lashing back.  He even lets John land a punch to his gut, as some kind of perverted reward for John’s effort.

This is taking too long; if he doesn’t speed this along he’ll risk Bane’s displeasure, and the last thing John would want is to be sent to Bane when he’s already irked. Barsad’s indulged him long enough. “Enough, John.” He grabs both John’s fists and wrestles him up against a wall as gently as he is able.

John struggles for a few moments, testing Barsad’s grip, then breathes heavily out of his nose, accepting that he’s lost yet again. He relaxes in Barsad’s hold. “You should really teach at the Academy,” he mumbles.

Barsad squeezes his wrists as in warning. He hardens himself, getting down to business.

“I can give you a few minutes, I suggest you prepare yourself.”

The air is heavy as realization dawns on John. He breathes out nervously. “No. No, Barsad. I won’t go.”He clenches his jaw. “I won’t.”

“You have to.”

 “Fuck you.” John chokes out, thrashing wildly. It’s no use; Barsad’s grip is unyielding. John’s breathing heavy, frustrated tears forming at his eyes.

Barsad thaws a little.

“He’ll take you anyways. He doesn’t care.” Barsad says.  I’ve seen what Bane can do, John.”

John meets his eyes and Barsad swears his heart stops.

“And why do _you_ care, Barsad?” he says.

Barsad’s taken aback for a sheer second. Because.....because....

He’s relieved when John keeps talking: “If I don’t go you’ll force me?”

“Yes,” Barsad says simply.

John purses his lips, weighing his choices and the risks involved. He doesn’t seem to like any of the possible courses of action.

“Yeah. Well.” John spits. “Fine. Let me do it then.” Barsad releases him and John tucks his shirt down in a huff. “You gonna watch me or something?”

 Barsad didn’t realize he’d been staring. “I’ll stand by the door. Five minutes, John, and I’m bringing you regardless.”

John sits on the bed. “Yeah, whatever.”

Barsad walks over the small hallway leading to the door. The room is an L shape, so Barsad can’t directly see John from where he’s standing. He can, however, watch him in the window’s reflection. John must not be aware of this – for a cop, he’s surprisingly oblivious. A good soldier would make sure to thoroughly analyze every aspect of his surroundings in order to use them to his best advantage. He’d make a terrible guerilla street fighter, Barsad thinks somewhat affectionately.

John sits pensively on the bed, not moving.

“Hurry, John.” he prompts.

“Yeah yeah, hold your goddamn horses, Jesus.” Comes the reply. John’s tone is brash, but his face has gone soft, more vulnerable now that he thinks Barsad’s not watching.  He looks boyish, far too young to be a police officer. Barsad wonders how old John actually is, but doesn’t bother asking. He is attractive, lovely even - all long graceful limbs and dark doe eyes. No wonder Bane's asked for him again.

Barsad stifles a pulse of envy before it can fully materialize. Such thoughts would do him no good.

When John finally begins to undo his jeans, Barsad looks away to give him some privacy.  

“So I guess I’m Bane’s whore now?” John says resentfully from around the corner, trying to mask the embarrassment in his voice. He’s clearly trying to fill the tense silence, as he is wont.

Barsad stares blankly at the wall in front of him. John makes a small noise of discomfort as he presumably slips a finger in.

“For the time being.”

“For the time being?”

Barsad doesn’t want to elaborate. It’s best that John doesn’t hear about the fate of all the others who are sent to Bane’s bed.

“Bane’s interest is fleeting.” Barsad says instead. It’s technically true.

“Oh. Well, fucking _splendid._ I’m not really looking for anything serious anyways. _”_

Barsad almost smirks. He’s not used to talking to someone as sarcastic as John. If one of his men spoke to him like that, however, he would have to have them flogged.

“Ready?” he says after a few more uncomfortable moments.

“No! Wait, wait.” John says, rustling his clothes.   Barsad hears him let out a deep breath.  “K. Ok.”

Barsad turns the corner again. John’s on his feet, blushing a deep red. Barsad approaches slowly and reaches forward with his hand. “Come, John.”

John eyes him nervously.  “Will.....will that, _thing_ , happen to me again? When I see Bane?”

Barsad just reaches for him and John recoils.

“Tell me, Barsad. Please. I need to know.”

Barsad can’t deny him an answer, not with those entreating brown eyes staring back into his.  John may be his enemy, but Barsad can’t help but feel a twinge of pity for him - no man should be robbed of his self-control like that. Make no mistake: Barsad would follow Talia to hell and back. He _has_ followed Talia to hell and back...... He just could do without her gratuitous sadism sometimes.

Barsad nods slowly in affirmation. John shudders and looks away. He lets out a choked-out sob, but twists it into a kind of macabre laugh at the last minute.  “Well, good. Wouldn’t want to get _raped_ or anything.”

This time, John allows Barsad to grab his upper arm and pull him towards the door, although his knees buckle slightly. John straightens himself and rolls his shoulders back, putting on an air of grave dignity, and Barsad can’t help but be impressed. He’s brave, at least. Barsad could certainly train him to be a better soldier. In fact, he’s trained far more incompetent men that John. But bravery? Bravery is not something that can be taught.

Barsad walks John out to the hall and his two men eye him knowingly. Barsad puts his men back into place with one sharp glance. Like vultures they are, circling for the kill – just waiting for Talia to tire of humiliating him and throw him to her men like a piece of meat. No. Barsad will shoot John in the skull before he’d let him suffer that kind of death.

With one hand at the small of John’s back, Barsad leads him towards the elevator.

\---

When Barsad comes for him again, John thinks he's ready. He's not going to wallow in misery like some fucking damsel in distress. Well ok, yes. He did do quite a bit of wallowing over these last few days before he could pull himself together and get a fucking grip, but John thinks that's understandable. He has it all figured out: immobilize Barsad, disarm him, use him as hostage and/or human shield and get the holy fuck out of here. He's one of the terrorists' leaders, John's seen the men salute him sometimes. They wouldn't dare fire on John when he's got a weapon on Barsad.

That was the plan, anyway.

Except Barsad is fucking _fast._

Hmm, looks like the plan was a little ambitious for a first go. John might have to be a little more realistic. He revises his choices once Barsad has him pinned against the wall:

1\. Beg. The basest, most animal part of him is tempted, but he knows that wouldn’t do him any good. Besides, he wants to maintain at least some shred of dignity.

2\. Jump off the building. Also tempting, but Gordon would be devastated to lose another officer. No, if only for Gordon, he has to try to get out of this alive. John decides to keep this option open, however. Just in case.

3\. Fight. Might as well cross that one out because _goddamn._ If ever escapes he is going straight to sign up for Muay Thai and Krav Maga lessons. Barsad fights like a man twice his size, and with more of a level head than John could ever hope to have.

4\. Wait it out. Fuck, this one is the worst and goes against all of his instincts. He hates the thought of just taking this passively and waiting for an opportunity to escape (or be _rescued_ , ugh) but at least he could try to get some valuable information to bring back to Gordon.

John hates to admit it, but it’s oddly reassuring to have Barsad come get him rather than some other random terrorist. He’s familiar. Even though John can’t get him to talk much, when Barsad does speak it is comfortingly sincere, like he couldn’t be deceptive if he tried. There’s something else, too. John’s not entirely sure what it is because Barsad has the best poker face he’s ever seen, but he seems almost......hesitant. Hesitant to do his duty? Maybe this might be a vulnerability John could exploit somehow......

Between the weird lube present (probably the most awkward moment of his life, and that’s saying something) and those brief flickering looks, John can tell Barsad’s not an evil man. Not like Bane, and certainly not like Talia.

Then suddenly, he remembers:

 _Bane’s just come inside him, and John’s boneless on his lap, panting heavily. Talia is petting his head, saying something in that cruel, mocking tone of hers, but John isn’t listening to her,_ can’t _hear her - not over the thumping of his heartbeat. It’s bliss, being this close to Bane, with his sturdy bulk underneath him and thick hands on his hips. Revelling together in their afterglow like lovers. John wishes he could just wrap himself in Bane’s embrace and stay there forever, but Bane has other plans: he’s not one for such sentimentality. Once he comes down from his own orgasm, he rises, dumping John unceremoniously on the floor. He says something to Talia and zips up his pants, and they both leave._

_John can’t seem to peel himself on the floor: his head is so foggy, kind of like how it feels when you’ve just barely woken up and can’t remember what day of the week it is. It’s disconcerting being parted from Bane, but John is at least able to stop himself from calling out his name in protest. Distantly, he feels a blanket being wrapped around him, covering his nakedness. He’s being lifted off the floor now, carried in strong, sure arms, and laid gently on a bed._

Not one of his most cherished memories, but something strikes him: It had to be Barsad.

Barsad, the most brutal fighter he’s even been up against, the second in command to the terrorists holding Gotham hostage. He was......alarmingly gentle.

John hates him slightly less than he did before.

Not that he wouldn’t fucking shoot him in the head like he’d promised a few days ago, but still.

It still takes all his available willpower to keep himself steady as Barsad guides him up to the elevator, up to where Bane (and maybe Talia, god forbid) is waiting for him. The disgusting slickness inside him is a constant reminder of the fact that he’s about to get fucked in the ass again, but John has to admit that since he is powerless to stop this, some lube is better than no lube.  And, considering how sore he’s been over the last few days, it’s not like he ‘s in a position to be too proud to use it.

He’s led into the same room as before. Bane’s standing over some papers on a desk, shirtless, all brute muscle and quiet authority. He doesn’t look up when John and Barsad enter, but he certainly knows they’re there.  To John’s immense relief, Talia is nowhere to be found, but a familiar pit of dread forms in his stomach when Bane finally looks up at him. John takes an unconscious step backwards into Barsad before he could stop himself. For some reason, it’s strangely comforting to feel Barsad’s warm chest against his back. From behind, Barsad runs his hands briefly down the side of John’s arms and squeezes lightly, soothing, as if he knows John is scared and is trying to comfort him in some crazy terrorist way.

Then it all clicks into place.

_Barsad likes me._

_Of course._

This realization sinks into the back of his mind as Bane approaches, eyes dark and predatory. John knows he’s all talk sometimes (“Fuck your shit up,” “Shoot you in the head”, “Fucking kill you”, etc.) but the honest truth is right now he is simply terrified.

“Strip,” Bane orders. His scent begins to waft into John’s nostrils and he’s beginning to forget why he even bothers to resist at all. The need to _please_ is taking over his mind again, and he hates himself for it.

Numbly, he tugs his shirt over his head and shivers at the sudden cold. Bane makes a warped, breathy noise as John undoes his jeans slips them off his slim hips, stepping out of them gracelessly., Bane wraps one massive hand around the back of John’s neck and looks him up and down.

“Are you willing, John?” He says, staring intently. John gulps.

“Yes.” _No, fuck you, you raping, murdering, sadistic psychopath._

Bane grunts and squeezes his neck in confirmation, not nearly as rough as John knows he is able.

“Bed. On your hands and knees.”

Much to his own chagrin, John complies, peeling himself away from Barsad. That urge for Bane to fuck him was building again, taking over his rational mind like it had the last time. He crawls onto the bed and hangs his head. Jesus, he’s already half-hard. From _nothing. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

His heart flutters nervously when he feels the bed dip as Bane settles behind him. The mattress audibly creaks like it can’t even take his great weight, and for some ludicrous reason it makes John more aroused.

Bane’s hands are on him, running down his back and over his ass, and it feels so good John can’t help but let out a soft whimper. Bane knees his legs apart, and John feels his prick at his hole. _So much for romance_. No preparation, no taking it slow, not while Bane’s on top: He slams in without any preamble and John screams. Even with the prep, it’s _too fucking much_.

“Ah! Fuck, stop. Stop, please,” John sobs, but Bane ignores him. At least Talia’s not here, she would just fucking love to hear him beg, that bitch.

Bane moves like a great bull, rutting him ferociously. Bane folds himself over John so that his two great arms are on either side of John, pinning him underneath his bulk. John’s utterly dominated, utterly helpless. He has no choice but to take it. Worse, he _wants_ to take it.

He hates that his body reacts the way it does, especially when Bane wraps one arm around his stomach to press John into his chest. He thrusts in deep and slow with an undeniable strength, spreading John open. The stretch is painful, but fuck, feeling full like this sates a deep primal craving that John hates acknowledging he has.

When Bane thrusts in at just the right angle, John sobs for an entirely different reason. Bane seems to like the sound that escapes John’s lips and hits that spot over and over, rough and merciless. John can’t last like this: he’s coming before he can even really register what’s happening to him. He clenches tightly around Bane’s cock as he feels his orgasm pulse through his body. Bane feels it too; he growls and pumps in and out brutally to make the most of those post-orgasmic muscle contractions. John’s like a rag doll under him, being rocked forwards and back a few inches every time Bane sinks in; it’s a struggle just to keep himself up.

Bane finally comes, gripping John’s hips so tightly that it’s sure to leave big, ugly bruises. He collapses on top of him and John can barely muster the energy to maneuver himself so that he doesn’t suffocate against the mattress. Bane’s wheezes raggedly into his ear for a few moments, then pulls out. John can feel a repulsive wetness between his thighs where Bane’s spunk is leaking out of him.

Despite it all, John rolls over and claws at Bane.   

 _Please, please just stay with me._ He’s not sure if he says it or just thinks it.

So fucking pathetic.

 Bane’s got other things to attend to, clearly, then John’s feelings. Annoyed, he slaps John across the face with an ease that belied how much it stung. John lets go and Bane tucks himself away.

It’s so cold without him at John’s back.

John can’t even decide what’s worse – that he wants to lie here and fucking _cuddle,_ or that Bane’s just leaving him here like some used whore.  He’s crying because it hurts, because he feels so disgusting with Bane’s come inside him, because Bane’s leaving, because he hates that he wants him at all, because he’s embarrassed Barsad’s witnessed the whole thing. He just wants to curl into himself and die.

Bane is mumbling to Barsad in some language that John doesn’t understand.  He’s too busy feeling sorry for himself to listen anyways. Then Bane leaves.

John lies back on the come-stained sheets.  When he hears Barsad’s footsteps approaching, John scrambles to cover himself. It’s ridiculous, really. _Like he hasn’t already seen me in more compromising positions than this._ Barsad’s at his bedside, expressionless and silent as he hands John his clothes.

John grabs at them and dresses so hastily he’s surprised his shirt’s not inside out and backwards.

“Thanks,” he mutters, laying back on the bed. He can hardly recognize the sound of his own voice, and he is finding it so fucking hard to think. He swipes his sleeve down his face as if it could erase the fact that he’s crying. He’s too sore to move; he hurts _everywhere_. Barsad was right: Bane is rough, brutal, impatient. If Barsad hadn’t given him a few minutes to prepare John is sure he would have taken a lot more damage. He'd probably be bleeding right now.

“Could you, could you tell me what Crane did?” he ventures when the silence becomes intolerable. He has to know. “Please?”

“Pheromones.” Barsad says. “Made you susceptible to Bane’s scent.”

 _Pheromones._ Like a goddamn _animal._ John chews on this for a moment. How the fuck did Crane manage that? It certainly would explain how John's been acting lately, but it's hard to believe such a thing is possible. He'd never heard of that before, especially not in humans. Seems like it would be the kind of thing that would be tricky to slip past the research ethics board.

“Is it permanent?”

“I don’t know.” It’s an honest answer, at least. Barsad is nothing if not honest.

“Well, that’s fucked up.” John says wearily, wiping away at a fresh batch of tears that he wishes weren’t forming at his eyes. His head is still too cloudy for him to be able to consider the full implications of this properly. “Talia must really hate me to go through all this trouble, huh.”

“Yes,” Barsad says. John almost laughs at the sheer bluntness of it. No sugar-coating the truth for Barsad. No _"she just needs to get to know the real you"_ or _"she'll come around sometime"_ bullshit.

John pauses, remembering that soft reassuring squeeze of his shoulder. “......but you don’t hate me,” he says boldly.

There. There, John could swear he saw it, even in his hazy state: just a slight flicker on Barsad’s face. If he had blinked he would have missed it. It’s exactly the confirmation John needed.

_I know you don't, you bastard._

“Get some rest, Officer Blake.” Barsad says severely, then turns and leaves.


	4. Chapter 4

John comes to realize a few things about his situation as the days and weeks roll on. First of all, he cannot beat Barsad in a fight. Lord knows he does try; he gets real creative with it. Once, John shattered the glass shower door and tried to use the shards as a weapon. He’d failed of course.  And now there is a cold draft when he takes a shower.

Barsad said it serves him right.

No matter how John comes at him, the fucker always manages to wrestle him into submission every time. How he does this remains a mystery. John wonders how Barsad came to be associated with these terrorist assholes. He seems out-of-place among them, like he doesn’t quite fit in even though he is high up on their hierarchy.  Even his name is strange. _Barsad._ John can’t place it – it doesn’t sound like a European name. Maybe Middle Eastern? He doesn’t _look_ Middle-Eastern. Barsad doesn’t even have a last name, not that John’s heard.

He’s a total mystery.

John respects him, at the very least. He’s fearless, patient, unemotional, cautious:  everything John’s not.  He takes John’s anger like a goddamn Spartan. Although Barsad always defends himself when John attacks, he never hurts John deliberately. He’s never cruel, not like some of the other terrorists who whistle lewdly at him when Barsad’s not around. He would make a good police officer, calm and level-headed.  John imagines what it would be like in some topsy-turvy alternate universe where Barsad is John’s partner rather than that idiot Nichols. John knows he gets a little too worked up and does stupid-ass shit sometimes, so Barsad would be a good match for him. Knock some well-needed sense into him as needed.

John imagines them interrogating a suspect: Barsad would definitely be the “good cop” to John’s “bad cop”.

_Officer Barsad._

John laughs crazily to himself at the sheer ridiculousness of that train of thought. Barsad! _Barsad the terrorist, my kidnapper, my jailer._ He is truly losing his mind.

There is also something refreshingly _simple_ about him, which John appreciates. John hates being bullshitted. Unlike Nichols, Barsad either gives a straight answer or he says nothing at all.  Which brings John to the next point: Barsad _likes_ him, as if his life weren’t weird enough as it is. When John outright called him out on it, he was so awkward that it had to be true. It was the one and only time John saw a crack in that perfectly maintained stoic composure. Although the jury’s still out on whether Barsad is actually capable of real _feelings_ like normal homo sapiens, John grants that Barsad _is_ treating him more kindly than is strictly necessary (given that he’s a dirty, stupid, terrorist bastard and whatnot). Whether he’s just trying to be nice, or if it’s something more, like some weird _crush_ , well. That remains to be seen.

John would be an idiot if he couldn’t manipulate this situation for his own benefit and exploit Barsad’s leniency somehow. Because let’s face it, the beat-him-to-a-pulp plan is certainly going nowhere.

 John’s watches him a little more carefully than he did before, looking for clues. Much to John’s chagrin, Barsad is as stubbornly unreadable as ever.

Barsad sometimes walks him down to one of the hotel’s conference rooms to give him the chance to stretch his legs, and for that John is grateful. His hotel room cell gets stifling, and although he can walk around the hallways by himself, he chooses not to in order to avoid the men's leers and catcalls. With Barsad behind him, however, their eyes slide over him completely.

If John gets out of this alive, he decides he won’t shoot Barsad.....in the head anyways.

Maybe in the kneecap.

John takes to attacking Barsad on these little jaunts anyways, just to vent his frustration against someone who he’s sure isn’t going to snap his neck.

Once, as John is flinging punches at him hysterically, Barsad stops him and says,

“Don’t pull away.”

John stops, panting. “Huh?”

“You withdraw your fist too soon. A strike should be delivered so that the target is hit and the weapon remains on the site of the impact. This imparts all the energy from the strike into the target, which sends a shock wave through the tissue. More damage that way.” He says by rote, as if he’s had to repeat this over and over many times.

“O....kay,” John says. He’d never heard that before. “You’re actually giving me tips?”

Barsad stands back. “Try.”

“What?”

“Try. Come on.”

“On you?” He can’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

“Yes, John.” Barsad says, but it sounds more like _who else._

“You’ll just out-manoeuvre me.”

“I won’t.”

“This is so dumb,” John mutters, but he’s already in a fighting stance. John lunges and punches Barsad in the gut, but it’s not nearly as hard as he knows he is able. He just doesn’t feel comfortable striking someone who isn’t fighting back, even if it is _Barsad_. In any case, Barsad barely flinches.

“You hesitated. Again.”

“I could hurt you,” John says and knows it sounds ridiculous. Isn’t that what he’s been trying to do every time Barsad saunters in? Barsad’s presses his lips together ever so slightly, like he almost wants to smile.

“I’ve had worse. Come on.”

 _Oh, you think so, do you?_   _Fucker._ John steels himself and tries again, but this time, when his fist makes contact, he holds it there for a few more fractions of a second than normal. Barsad crumples a little and almost winces. Then he straightens up.

“Better.” he says.

Despite himself, John feels a small surge of accomplishment. They do this a few more times until John’s sure he’s got the technique assimilated into his fighting style.

“I wanna know the choke hold thing.” John prods. If Barsad wants to give tips, well, could anyone blame him from trying to milk the situation a little bit?

“How to do it?

_Why, was I that bad last time I tried it on you?_

“No, how to break it.”

“Alright, well, come grab me then,” Barsad says, motioning him forward.  It kind of irks him that Barsad lets him do this without considering him as even _a little bit_ of a threat, but John swallows his pride and takes Barsad by the neck loosely. “See what I’m doing? Since you’ve got me from this side, I slide my left foot behind yours, like this......yes......Then, I force my elbow into my attacker’s gut. He’ll trip over my foot and fall backwards.” Barsad mimics this gently, just to show John the mechanics of it. Sure enough, between the placement of Barsad’s foot and the jab of his elbow, John can’t help but release him. Makes sense.....makes _a lot_ of sense, actually.

“Let me try,” John says and turns around. Barsad comes up behind him and takes him by the neck firmly. John takes a second to get his bearings. Foot, then elbow. Barsad obligingly falls back.

“Well, that’s easy,”

“Again,” Barsad says. John nods.

They do it the same. John’s much faster this time around: he breaks Barsad’s hold in a few seconds.

“Again, John.”

This time, however, Barsad grabs him like a fucking maniac and presses his forearm deep into John’s throat so forcefully that John’s  stream of air is cut off completely. He chokes and feels a flutter of panic build in his stomach, but then he moves to trip his attacker. Barsad’s not making it easy for him:  rather than standing still like before, he’s changing his stance in response to John’s wriggling. It takes a few tries before John manages to place his foot in the right spot. He elbows Barsad hard in the stomach, and Barsad reels backward. Not a moment too soon, either. He almost _blacked out._

“Jesus,” John wheezes in between coughs. “What’d you do that for?”

“If you can’t do it when it matters, than you can’t do it at all.” Barsad says sagaciously and pats him on the back.

John rubs at his swollen neck tenderly, then glares up at him. “You could have given me at least one more practise round.”

Barsad’s eyes crinkle ever so slightly. “You did well, John.”

John shrugs off the hint of pleasure he feels in his stomach.  “Whatever. I think I’ve had enough for today.”

Barsad nods, and they make their way back up to John’s room. They’re about halfway there before John predictably gets too uncomfortable with having no socially-obligatory-silence-filling small talk.

 “So where’d you learn to fight?” It’s as good a question as any. It just seems like Barsad knows _everything_ there is to know about fighting _._ John’s thought up some crazy backstories when he’s alone trying to kill time in his room – his favorite is the one where Barsad is – plot twist! - actually a robot. It’s plausible. Barsad pretty much operates at the emotional level of a robot.

“Everywhere.”

John rolls his eyes. “Uh huh. Thanks Barsad, you know how I like vague, nondescript answers. No, seriously, I wanna know. Did you train with ninjas? Mujahedeen?  Dirty commie secret police?”

Barsad shrugs noncommittally at that last one, and John’s eyes light. It’s the first glean of personal information Barsad has let slip and John seizes it like it was _fucking golden._

 _“_ Whoa whoa whoa whoa. Wait. Are you?” This could be _better_ than the robot story.

Barsad ignores him and scratches the back of his neck. He’s clearly trying to avoid the question, but there’s no way John’s going to let go of this so easily. He has been sitting on his ass in that godforsaken hotel room for weeks with no clue who or what Barsad is and goddamnit he’s not about to back down now. “C’mon Barsad. Tell me, please. Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Like, full on Soviet-secret service police officer? KBB”?

“KGB.” Barsad corrects, bristling.

“Yeah! That’s it! Shit, that’s so fucking badass!” John can’t contain his excitement. A real life KGB officer, like in all those movies? No wonder he’s fucking indestructible. Man, Barsad must get _all_ the pussy. “Why didn’t you want to tell me that? If I was once a member of the KGB I would be telling _everyone.”_

Barsad’s face turns dark and his muscles tense. “No, you wouldn’t. You don’t know anything about it.”, he snaps. John’s enthusiasm dies immediately; Barsad’s never barked at him like that. Barsad swallows after a heavy pause and says softly, “I wasn’t _in_ the KGB. I was running _from_ the KGB.”

The way he says it, makes him sound more.....vulnerable. Human.

John’s speechless, feeling like an insensitive asshole. He’d dreamed shit up, yeah, but he didn't think he'd get a reaction like _this_. “Shit man, I’m sorry....”

Barsad shrugs, slipping back into nonchalance.

They keep walking in silence, but John’s mind is whirring. Barsad’s certainly done nothing to sate his curiosity with _that_ little tidbit, but John doesn’t prod him further. Not now.

He looks over and Barsad just looks so _tired._

_Who are you?_

\---

Barsad comes for him like usual the next day, and they go through the routine. John fights. John loses. Barsad gives a tip or two. John practices until Barsad tells him it’s good. Then Barsad lets him get ready.

Yeah, it’s crazy to keep attacking him like this with the impossibility of success, but John needs to feel like he’s putting up _some_ kind of resistance. He’s Bane’s _whore_ , for Christ’s sake. If he didn’t keep himself occupied he would go mental.

Barsad doesn’t mention their earlier conversation. He doesn’t treat John with anything more than his usual civility.

All the while, John watches. For _anything._ Any scrap of information will do. Barsad's like this puzzle John is hell-bent on solving. John is, after all, a natural detective.

Ultimately, though, Barsad has to bring him to Bane. He does it with such resignation that John thinks he doesn’t much care for this set up either. John resents him less and less for it.

John’s had a long time to digest this pheromone information, and he isn’t tickled pink about it. He hates losing control of his body like that, hates that Talia’s done this to him.  His only consolation is that at least the pheromones make sex with Bane, erm, not terrible. Physically, that is. Sometimes while he’s in the throes he can hear a distant voice telling him that this is wrong, that he’s not gay and that he should fucking bite it off, but usually John is so lost in the sensations that come with Bane’s presence that he just can’t bring himself to care.

Yeah, that’s definitely fucked up. He _enjoys_ the sex.

OK, if he’s going to be completely honest, the pheromones make it _mind-blowing_. He can’t remember ever having orgasms like that, not even with that really hot brunette chick he managed to get into bed once. It’s amazing even though Bane’s often too rough and leaves bruises all over his skin. Maybe it’s amazing _because_ of it.

Then the pheromones wear off and he’s back to hating himself all over again.

And Bane.

Well.

 Bane is never gentle, exactly, but these days he doesn’t seem quite so quick to leave after he’s climaxed. John chalks that up to how fucking clingy he’s been after sex. _Pheromones, ugh._ A few nights prior, John had been begging Bane to stay as usual, just for a few more moments, _please_ , and to John’s infinite surprise, he actually did. Mr. Gotham’s Reckoning Himself laid his hulking body back down and gathered John in his arms. And, because his life is fucking weird, John cuddled the _living shit_ out of him. It felt so, so good to be that close to Bane, so _right_ \- John couldn’t think of anywhere else he would rather be in the whole world. Bane seemed a little stunned at John’s enthusiasm, to say the least. Pleased, but stunned. He stayed with him until John fell into a blissful sleep.

Now, so long as he has nothing pressing to attend to, John can pretty much always count on Bane to lay with him for at least a few moments after sex.  

This is one of those nights - Bane’s just finished fucking him and has scooped John up in his arms. They’re lying on their sides with John’s back pressed against Bane’s chest, sweaty and high from orgasm. Bane’s hands run up and down his flank possessively and John feels so euphoric he could almost cry. _This._ This is what he needs. He feels so warm and safe that if his own dead mother came back from the grave and tried to pry him away, he’d tell her sorry bones to fuck off.

John nuzzles deep into Bane’s hold, and Bane makes a low rumbling noise behind him.  _He likes it_. John wonders if anyone’s ever really let Bane hold them like this – he can’t imagine anyone actually _wanting_ to be a willing little spoon to Bane’s big spoon (ugh) because let’s face it, Bane is fucking terrifying. Maybe he walks out after sex out of habit. 

“John Blake,” Bane says, stroking his hair. “You are always prepared when you come to me.” The sound of his raspy voice startles John – he’s not used to Bane talking to him beyond asking him if he’s willing, which he does, without fail, every time they’re about to fuck.

John blushes, even though he’s probably way beyond being embarrassed by just a simple _question_. “Uh, yeah.”

“Does it make it......enjoyable for you?”

_Because usually your sexual conquests are screaming in pain?_

“I guess.” John says, hoping Bane would just stop talking and let John enjoy himself.

He doesn’t. He rolls John over slightly so that his ugly mask is hovering above John’s face.

His hand travels up to John’s face and he presses his fingertips along John’s jaw and chin. “It gives you pleasure that I take you?”

  _Just shut up._

John is too high on endorphins to try to resist; he mouths at Bane’s fingers, hoping Bane would take that as an answer instead. John doesn’t think he can actually bring himself to say it.

Bane seems to accept this. “You are a pretty little thing,” he growls softly.

John bristles a little. _Pretty?_ He’s not some fucking _girl!_ Pretty wasn’t exactly what he was going for when he joined the GCPD.

“Uh, thanks.” he says, not knowing what else to say.

Bane gazes at him for a few more moments. Without warning, he grabs John’s chin harshly.

“No other man may touch you,” he rasps. “Do you understand?”

John’s not so far gone that he’s past being scared of Bane. He gulps.

Bane shakes his face a little. “Do you understand, John? No other man will have what is mine.”

“Yes, yes! Fine!” John yelps.

  _Jesus._

Bane grunts and releases him, rolling him back over on his side. John could still feel his finger’s indentations on his chin. Bane wraps one meaty arm back around his waist and soon John’s anger fades back into contentment. John closes his eyes and sighs despite himself. Bane’s so warm and sturdy against his back that it’s not long before he slips into a blissful sleep.

He wakes up to find Bane still behind him for the first time ever. He’s never slept next to John before.

And John feels........surprisingly clear headed. No euphoric high, no desire to cuddle, nothing. In fact, this is by far the most lucid he’s ever felt in Bane’s presence. If he weren’t so scared of waking Bane, John would have no qualms about getting the fuck out of there. It’s a _huge_ relief -   maybe he isn’t nearly as crazy as he thought! Then he figures it out. The pheromone thing isn’t permanent: John will habituate to Bane’s scent if he spends enough time with him all at once.

At first, John hopes that maybe he has permanently built up a tolerance for it, but unfortunately that’s not how biology works. It’s like hearing a loud noise: the first time, you jump, but if you hear it again, you jump less. If it plays again and again, you ignore it altogether. But if that same noise is played days later, you’ll jump like you did the first time. So, after a few days without seeing Bane, John goes all-out porn star on him like before.  He moans like a whore in Bane’s bed, but when he’s alone in his room he sobs in frustration.

\----

John knows something is amiss when Barsad’s not the one who comes for him. He fights them like he fights Barsad and doesn’t hold back. It gives him a smug sense of satisfaction when he can land more blows on them than he can on Barsad. He even manages to twist back one of terrorist's fingers back hard enough to make him howl.

_I’m not so defenceless after all, you bastards._

They get their grips on him, however, and cuff his hands for his insolence.  John is dragged to a different suite in the hotel than normal. He’s starting to get a bad feeling about this.

 Talia is there waiting for them, lounging lazily on a plush leather armchair. John hadn’t seen her since the first time Bane had fucked him, and frankly he could do without ever seeing her again. She’s definitely number one on his list of people John wants to shoot in the head.

 “John. Darling. May I get you a drink?” she says warmly.

John snarls. It’s nice to have your wits about you when you’re facing your enemies at least. What a crazy thing to be thankful for. “How about this: Fuck you.”

“Well, if I you don’t want a drink, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m feeling rather celebratory.” she opens a small box on the coffee table in front of her and pulls out a cigar, sniffing it exaggeratedly. “Cuban. I’d offer you one, but I’m afraid there aren’t many of these left in Gotham.” As she clips the end she says, “I do apologize for this whole thing. It’s nothing personal, you understand. I had no choice but to make an example of you, to show that such resistance will not be tolerated.”

“Yeah, well,” John spits, “The only thing you’re showing is that you’re nothing but a bunch of crazy terrorists. And fuck you if you think that the people of Gotham won’t rise up against you. Because they will. And all you and your little terrorist minions will burn in hell.”

Talia raises her eyebrows and smiles at him bemusedly, then lights her cigar. She hollows her cheeks as she takes a long drag, then lets the smoke seep from her red lips. Talia smiles sadistically and John’s stomach drops.

“You didn’t ask me what we’re celebrating, John.”

_This can’t be good._

“Just hold on a minute, poppet. I _am_ terrible with these things,” She says, fiddling with her laptop. “Ah. There we go.”

The wide-screen television lights up behind her once it gets the signal. On it was the front page of what looked to be a porn site.

“Look, look at this,” She says, gleeful. “You’re trending, darling, isn’t that marvelous?” She clicks on one of the videos and there he is. Sucking Bane’s cock. On a porn site.

John can’t help but feel hot tears begin to form at his lashes. That’s _his life_. That’s his life and she’s fucking ripping it away from him. It’s one thing to do that privately, but to expose it to the world? _And looking like he fucking loves it, too?_ How would he ever rise in the GCPD ranks now? What would future girlfriends think, or in-laws? Christ. You can’t just take shit like that down from the internet. If it’s out there, it’s in the internet ether forever. There’s not a goddamn thing John can do about it.

John doesn’t remember exactly when this was – his sexual encounters with Bane have kind of blurred together. Bane’s face isn’t even in the shot. It’s just a close up of John between Bane’s massive legs, sucking obscenely with spit and precome dribbling down his chin. He can’t even recall ever being filmed. _Fuck._ Is he really that far gone when he’s with Bane?  

“......and look at all these comments,” Talia says, puffing on her cigar. “Looks like you’ve got some fans, John. They all appreciate your enthusiasm. Oh! Look at this one,” She says, pointing to the screen, “That twink sure knows how to suck cock. Astutely put, 12inches4u. He _is_ quite the adept little cocksucker.”

John can’t even think of anything to say, he is struck dumb in shock. He knew Talia was a sadistic fuck, but this.....

 “Oh , and I made sure to send a copy to Gordon, too. So he knows just how you're spending your time here,” Talia says. “I’m sure he’ll, shall we say, _enjoy_ it.”

_To Gordon?_

“You _bitch_ ,” John sobs, tears of humiliation falling off his face. He thrashes violently in Talia’s men’s grip. “You fucking _bitch._ I hope you burn in hell, you fucking cunt. Fuck.” He’s crying so hard can hardly talk. Jesus, what will Gordon think? He’ll know its Bane, it’s so obvious. John will never live this down. How could he even show his face at the station again? His life is _ruined._

Talia laughs. “Come on now John. At least we know you have a promising career waiting for you outside the GCPD.”

John roars and twists ferociously, straining in the handcuffs, but the men’s hold is unyielding.

Talia takes a long drag on the cigar and hums in pleasure.

“Get him out of my sight.”

\--

“I think Mr. Blake has outstayed his welcome,” Talia says one evening when they’re sharing a drink on the hotel roof. What she means is, _I’m sick of having him around and I want him dead now._ Bane’s been spending more and more time with John over these last few weeks, even having John sleep with him overnight on a few occasions. And if Barsad didn’t know any better, he could swear she was a little......jealous. Like the pheromone thing was working a little _too_ well for her comfort. She probably didn’t think Bane would become so partial to John and Barsad knows she doesn’t like to be caught off-guard like that.

“No.” Barsad says shortly.

Talia raises one eyebrow, like she does when she knows she’s being played. “No?”

“Bane is not through with him yet. He is enjoying your gift.”

Talia makes a petulant face. Barsad must tread carefully.

“Besides, Gordon would pay dearly for him. I think we could get him to exchange a hostage for him, maybe Faysal, or even Mucha.”

Talia smiles, but her eyes are dark.

“If I didn’t know better, brother,” she says forebodingly, “I could swear you had _feelings_ for him”

Barsad kept his face neutral, but his heart is beating a little faster. 

“Why would you say that?”

Talia shrugs nonchalantly and takes a sip of her scotch. “Oh, I don’t know. Something about the way you’ve been lusting after him ever since he came here. Just the way you _ground_ yourself against him when you fingered him, do you remember?” She twirls the glass in her hands. “And when he was sucking cock? _Christ,_ Barsad. If I had known you wanted a fuck that badly, I would’ve sent you someone.”

“It’s purely physical, I assure you.” Barsad says coolly.

Talia leans forward in her chair and narrows her eyes , scrutinizing him to the very core. “Is it?” she enunciates. He holds her gaze steadfastly; looking away now would only give him away.

 The mistake has already been made.

Talia breaks it off first, leans back and takes a sip of her scotch. “Maybe my imagination, then.”

Barsad lets out the tiniest hint of a breath and Talia hums.

“Purely physical.” She repeats thoughtfully to herself, swirling the golden liquid in the glass.

Barsad says nothing.

\---

When Barsad walks into the room, the walls are painted an egregiously gaudy yellow, like a Van Gogh sunflower. It’s chipping: a piece of the yellow crumbles as he walks by, making sharp jagged cuts, like a shattered mirror, spreading from the epicenter of Barsad’s touch

There are moths buzzing about a single light bulb hanging from a bare cord. It’s muggy in here, in the guts. The walls are _too_ yellow for how dark it is and it’s making Barsad’s eyes water

He says, “Do it”

 Once the cracks reach to the ceiling, the moths fly out of the window in single file and it’s so, so quiet, that is, except for the walls. He thinks they’re dripping on him but he’s not sure

He says again, “Do it”, his voice is somewhere else. the words hang suspended behind him and above him and inside him, like they won’t fade though he wants them to

Barsad can’t

He _can’t_

Drip drip

 But then he does

It’s not so bad

The yellow collapses

\---

Barsad wakes with a violent start, panting, drenched in sweat. Shakily, he runs a hand through his short hair and waits for his breathing to settle down. He peels himself out of his bed and swipes his hand down his face, willing himself to calm down.

He shuffles to the bathroom, turns in the faucet and splashes cool water over his head until the urge to vomit fades and his face slips back into its usual expressionless state.

That was a long time ago.

A long time ago.

_Christ._


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn’t too difficult to convince Bane to allow Barsad to escort John around the hotel every once in awhile. He reasoned that it might discourage any covetous behavior on the part of the more untrained soldiers, and John did need the exercise. He rehearsed his speech again and again in his head until he knew exactly how he'd phrase it. In the end, he needn't have bothered: Bane didn’t really care either way so long as Barsad did it once he was done their official business and John was always back when Bane wanted him. Barsad figured that’s about the best he can do for John at the moment. He did want to help him, for reasons unknown, but not if it meant getting them both killed. Barsad was a very cautious man. He weighed his options very carefully before coming to a decision. And for now, he concluded, it in their best interest to just wait.

Barsad was getting used to their little routine. He didn’t mind being attacked or giving John combat tips. In fact, it gave him a strange sense of pride when John would incorporate something Barsad had shown him into their daily fights.

Barsad knocks at John’s door and he doesn’t answer, as usual. Barsad waits, as usual, before entering.  He braces himself for the inevitable flurry of punches or kicks or whatever ‘surprises’ John could come up with. Last time John had flung his bedspread over Barsad’s head when he turned the corner, in an effort to try to disorient him. It was pretty creative, Barsad will give him that. He might not make such a terrible guerilla street fighter after all. One of the first things he teaches his men is to be resourceful.

This time, however, nothing.

 He turns the corner and John is lying on the bed, looking up at him intently.  It wasn’t like him not to _try_ to resist, at least. Maybe he’s sick?

“John? Are you alright?” Barsad says slowly.

“M’fine,” John says, stretching himself out on the bed luxuriously, curving his long elegant neck back. The action pulls John’s shirt up a little, revealing a smooth strip of pale skin just above his waistband.

Barsad swallows, but his mouth is suddenly very dry. He hides it well. “No fight in you today?”

John slides off the bed onto his feet and slinks towards him slowly. Barsad’s relieved: _Finally. You lost the element of surprise, John, but you can still practice your weak left upper cut._

Barsad’s wrong, though. John _definitely_ has the element of surprise.

John leans in and kisses him.

It’s more of a press of lips than anything, like John’s trying to make sure Barsad won’t punch him in the face. It’s hurried, and before Barsad has the chance to fully register it John pulls back just a little bit, analyzing him with those black, black eyes.

He must find Barsad’s dazed face encouraging, because John closes the space between their bodies and kisses him again. This time, he sucks gently at Barsad’s lower lip and rests his hand on the back of Barsad’s neck to draw him in just a little closer.

Barsad’s heart flutters and pulses of heat shoot down his spine; his knees can barely support him anymore. He can't remember the last time he's been kissed like this, it just seems too good to be true. John’s so warm and insistent against his lips, everything he’s dreamed and more......

John breaks the kiss and moves down, mouthing at the sensitive flesh of Barsad’s neck.

“Help me. Help me get out of here Barsad. I will do _whatever you want_ , right here, right now.” John whispers hotly in his ear. His words are thick with promise - promise of fulfilling every desire Barsad tries to stifle when he’s alone at night in his cold bed.

Barsad’s cock stirs in interest.  John’s b _eautiful,_ Jesus Christ, and willing. It goes against every shred of reason in his bones but fuck, Barsad is tempted......

But it wouldn’t be because John _wanted_ him......No, not the way Barsad wishes John wanted him.

_Too good to be true._

Barsad snaps out of it.

“Stop, stop, John” Barsad says quietly, grapping John’s wrists before they slide down his chest any further. John makes a pouty face.

“Why? Don’t you want me?” John tries to make it seductive, but it comes out sounding a little bit bitter. John presses himself back against Barsad. “I think you do, I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

_Is it that obvious?_

“Come on. What do you want? You want me to suck you, Barsad, hmmm? Get down on my knees for you?"

_Oh god._

But Barsad can’t.

He _can’t._

“No John.” Barsad says firmly, pushing him away. It takes all of his vast stores of willpower.

“But you want to,” John prods. “I can tell you do. Come on Barsad, please, I need your help. We’d both be getting what we want this way.......I can be a real good sport.....”

_No. Not like this._

_I don’t want to bargain for it._

“There is nothing I can do, John. I can’t help you.” Barsad snaps. He hardens his face, like he does when he’s trying to intimidate people, so that John doesn’t press the issue further. Barsad doesn't like being harsh with John, but he’s left him no choice.

Finally, John‘s sultry facade crumbles. His face sinks and he looks so, so young. His cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters after a pause, looking away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

Barsad lets out a breath in relief. He was _so dangerously close_ to giving in.

“That’s alright.” Barsad says casually, bringing his voice back down to normal. Like turning down sex from beautiful young men happens to him all the time.

“I’m just, tired, I guess. I have a lot on my mind.” John says wearily, swiping his hand through his hair.

“Don’t worry about it.”

John puts his sweater back on, then narrows his eyes.

“You weren’t....you weren’t tempted? Not even a little?” he says cautiously.

Barsad can see it in his mind’s eye – throwing John on the bed, stripping him, exposing that beautiful pale flesh. Having John moan his name in ecstasy, erasing all memories of Bane. Making him come again and again and again......

_You have no fucking idea._

“Bane would kill us both.” Barsad says instead.

John’s shoulder’s slump in defeat.

 “Well, better him than Talia. She’s probably upstairs right now thinking up new and exciting ways to make my life a living hell.” John says half-jokingly, plopping himself down on the edge of the bed. “What’s her fucking problem, anyways? Is she always so psycho bitch?”

 “She’s jealous of you, John,” Barsad says. He shouldn’t even be _thinking_ things like that, let alone saying them out loud, but he really needed to change the topic.

John looks back at him disbelievingly, processing this information.

“Jealous? Of me?”

Barsad sighs in resignation. He can’t keep his bloody mouth shut. “Because Bane is fond of you, because you’re......distracting him.”

John winces at Barsad’s choice of euphemism.

“If you want to survive, John, Bane is your only hope. Not me. You must keep his interest. Talia would not go against him.”

 “Keep his interest,” John echoes distastefully. “For how long? Forever?”

“I don’t know.” Barsad says honestly.

John considers this.

"Does she love him or something?”

“In a way, I suppose. They have known each other for a very long time.”

John’s quiet for a blissful moment. Then he says, “And you really can’t help me, Barsad? I mean, even if you wanted to.....if we...?” His voice trails off. He just looks so young.

What _could_ he do to stop this?  Talia wants John dead, that’s for certain, and when she gets her chance it will neither be swift nor merciful. She will stop at nothing to have her way; her jealousy has clouded her better judgement.

Barsad can only think of one thing he can do for John. And he _will_ do it, even if it wrenches his heart from his chest.

  _I will end your suffering mercifully, John, if it comes to that. That I promise you._

He doesn’t say it, though. It would just upset him. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry John.”

John looks up at him from the bed, his dark eyes suddenly flashing in anger.

“Of course. Of course you won’t help me, because you’re on _her side,”_ he spits viciously, standing up. “You pretend like you’re someone else, someone better, but you’re just another terrorist like the rest. Do you know what she did to me? About the video?”

Barsad nods slowly and John growls.

“And you didn’t say anything? That's kind of the thing you should really warn a guy about, that he's on a fucking porn site. Christ. Tell me at least you didn't see it....”

Barsad doesn’t answer. It would do John no good to know that Talia had shown most of her men.  

Then John shoves Barsad hard on the chest, forcing him a step backwards. Barsad takes it.

“Well, fuck you. You hear me? Fuck you. I don't know if you've noticed, but my life is ruined.  What the fuck am I supposed to say to the other cops if I ever get out of here? Oh, yeah, don’t mind that, I was just giving Bane head. You know Bane, the crazy murdering terrorist holding Gotham hostage? And yeah, I sucked it like I’m fucking Jenna Jameson, but I couldn’t control myself, no really! How do you think that will go over, with them out there doing something _useful_ while I’m stuck here being Bane’s fucking sex toy? You know what they would think? That I’m some fag who was too weak to resist. Because I am. I am weak. I’ve _always_ been weak. I will never live this down, Barsad. Never. She sent a copy to Gordon, for Christ’s sake.” John’s voice cracks and he swipes at the tears on his face. 

Barsad listens patiently and takes John’s sluggish blows when he gives them. It's building, Barsad can tell.

“It’s alright John, you’re alright,” he says steadily, holding him up and rubbing his back. John thrashes weakly.

“No, It's not. It's not alright. I have some crazy bitch out to skin my ass and what’s my best option? To grovel at Bane’s feet, beg him to fuck me like a fucking whore. I can’t even stop myself from wanting it and then I hate myself for loving it. She won’t stop, Barsad. God, she’s going to kill me and I’m scared. I want to go home, I can’t stay here anymore, please, Barsad. Not with her....” John’s beginning to sob, his words slur together incoherently. Barsad can sense he’s on the cusp of a full-blown panic attack. "I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe,” John gulps, shaking violently. “I need to get out of here, please.....I can't breathe....”

 “I’ll take you up to the roof, alright?” Barsad says, putting one arm around John’s shoulder to help him along. John covers his face in his hands, breathing raggedly. John nods.

\---

John nearly collapses when he reaches the roof. His heart’s going to explode, it’s pumping so fast. _I’m dying. I’m going to die right here, right now._ He gulps in deep breaths of fresh, cool autumn air to keep himself from choking. He’s a fucking mess. He can’t stop, can’t stop.

The crisp breeze is calming. John breathes deeply and wipes at his snot-covered face. After a few agonizing moments, his anxiety starts to subside and his whole-body tremors lessen to a slight shaking of his hands. His head throbs and his face feels puffy. He’s sure he looks like a train wreck.

John didn’t mean to have a nervous breakdown on Barsad like that, but it just got so hot and suffocating in that goddamn room all of a sudden.... It had been festering for weeks, and he’s just so tired and emotionally wrung out that he just couldn’t stop himself once he got started. He felt a pang of guilt when he remembered the shit he had said to Barsad. He didn’t deserve that.

“I would kill for a cigarette right about now,” John says once he is convinced he can talk without his breath hitching. He hadn’t smoked in years like a good boy, but fuck it all. A smoke would sure hit the spot right now -

Barsad walks up and pulls a pack and a lighter out of his military vest. He hands one to John and holds up his lighter. John leans into the flame and inhales deeply.

“Thanks,” John says after he takes his first drag in ages. “I needed that,” he closes his eyes and exhales. It’s good, soothing. Better than he remembered. It brings his heart rate down and makes him forget what a fucking idiot he is. “I didn’t know you smoked.” John says dumbly. He tries to stifle a hiccup.

“I don’t,” Barsad says, tucking the pack away.

“Then why do you have cigarettes on you?”

“In case I should decide to start,” Barsad says simply, with only the barest hint of a smile.

_Did he just crack a joke? Barsad, Mr. Stony-face McGee?_

After John’s brain takes a second to confirm that yes, Barsad did in fact just make a joke, John lets out a crazed laugh. He’s so tired and high on adrenaline that it just kind of bubbles out.

If he gets out of this alive he might not even shoot Barsad at all.

John’s quiet for a minute, gazing down at Gotham. John can’t even describe what an immense relief it is just to see the sky, feel the wind on his skin. He hadn’t been outside once in the month he’s been here. Gotham seems so quiet from way up here, indifferent to all his problems. He feels very very still now, settled:  the quiet aftermath to his emotional nuclear bomb.

“Listen, uh, thank you, for bringing me up here. I’m sorry I got a little.....carried away.” John says unsteadily. _Sorry I molested you and told you to fuck off and had a meltdown and all that. Please don’t ever talk about it again or I might have to kill you and/or die of embarrassment._ “It just gets a little cramped in that little room, you know? S’hard to think clearly sometimes.” As if that explained everything.

Barsad shrugs. “I know what it’s like to feel cooped up like that.”

John nods. His head feels so blissfully empty now, with the refreshing cool breeze against his overheated skin.

Wait, wait, what?

Was that an opening?

John subtly shifts into detective mode, puffing on his cigarette casually. “You do?”

 Barsad shrugs again, like that could satisfy John’s curiosity. (It doesn’t.)

“Like, what do you mean?” John prods. “Have you....have you ever been in jail or something?”

Barsad scratches his neck.  John thinks that might be Barsad for _I don’t want to talk about it_. John’s definitely onto something. Fuck, if he can ever muster the courage to show his face back at the station he should look into becoming an interrogator.

"Yes." 

From the look on Barsad’s face, he clearly can tell John’s trapped him. John raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“I, uh, spent some time in a gulag when I was younger,” he continues uncomfortably.

The word sounds familiar.....but no. He couldn't place it. John feels like an idiot for asking, "What's that?"

Barsad sighs. "A corrective labor camp."

John’s jaw all but drops. “You mean a work camp?”

“Yes.”

“Like, where?”

Barsad pauses, as if it pained him to even think about it. “Siberia.”

_Holy shit._

John’s face sears. _No wonder he was so touchy about the KGB thing_. John feels like even more of an insensitive prick for talking about it so flippantly before. And he thought he had a shitty life. Fuck. Being a prisoner here is probably a _cakewalk_ in comparison.

John’s thoughts spin tumultuously, his questions blurring together in his mind: _What were you accused of? Did you do it? How long was your sentence?_ _How did you survive? Was it as terrible as it is in the movies? How long were you there? Were you released, or did you escape?_

Yeah, considering how taciturn Barsad is, how hard John has to coax him to say _anything at all,_ well. If he’s not careful he might put Barsad off talking forever. Instead, John tries what he hopes is more palatable angle.

“This might be a dumb question, but I thought.....I thought that stuff was in the past. Like, more Soviet Union type shit.”

 “Yeah, it was.” Barsad says cryptically.

Well, what does that mean? Unless.......unless.....wait. When did the Soviet Union collapse? 1991?  Barsad looks like he’s in his mid to late thirties, which would mean......

“You were a kid?” John says incredulously.

Barsad just rubs his neck again noncommittally. He definitely doesn’t like talking about this. John can barely hold back a barrage of questions, but he decides to let it rest, for now. He owes Barsad that, at least.

 _He was once a prisoner too._. John can’t help but feel a little camaraderie.

 “Jesus, Barsad,” he says. “And I thought my life was fucked up.”

John reaches into Barsad’s pocket without asking and takes another cigarette.

\---

John’s lying on top of Bane, ear pressed to his chest, listing to the steady thump thump thump. Bane is petting John’s hair lazily and John’s wonderfully annoyed. It was not so long ago that he would be purring with pleasure to be in just such a position. Even though Bane still has quite a powerful effect on him, (especially if they hadn’t fucked for a few days) John thinks that he’s habituating to Bane’s pheromones much more quickly than he did before. When they first started lying next to each other after sex, it would take many hours for him to feel this alert. While that may be good in principle, it makes his cuddle sessions with Bane increasingly unpalatable. John wishes he hadn’t hooked Bane on it – then he wouldn’t have to be laying here on Bane’s chest, sticky with come and sweat.

With nothing else to do until Bane decides to let him up (and feeling too sore and tired to do much anyways) John thinks. And like usual, his thoughts usually drift to Barsad.

He cringes when he thinks of how he’d acted.

The kiss had been a risky move – he hadn’t quite been sure about whether Barsad liked him _that way_. It was a spur-of-the-moment act of desperation and John’s not proud of it. In his defense, he had been a little hysterical after the incident with Talia and hadn’t slept for three days, so could you really blame him?

John had thought a lot about Barsad’s reaction. He’d caught him off guard, certainly, but Barsad didn’t seem into it at all. He pretty much offered his ass on a plate and Barsad shot him down.

_He doesn’t like me._

_Psh. My love life in a nutshell._

And then of course, his other proud moment. Ugh, what the fuck is his problem? John had always been somewhat, shall we say, passionate, but never quite like _that_. Barsad must think he’s a neurotic, volatile emotional wreck.

(he’d be right)

John physically suppresses a cringe of mortification. Fuck, he is so stupid.......

 “You will stay here,” Bane says suddenly, breaking John’s train of thought. “In my room." 

“Huh?” John says, dazed. He's still not used to having Bane talk to him.

_Like, all the time?_

 “You will sleep here, with me, from now on.” Bane says with great finality, leaving no room for discussion. He offers no further explanation. He doesn’t need to; It’s not like John could _refuse._

That doesn’t stop him from hating the idea.

_Great, now I’m a live-in girlfriend._

John had grown to loathe his tiny hotel room cell with the broken shower door, but at least it was _his._ Private.  He could close the door and nobody (except Barsad) would come bother him. Moving in here would mean more time with Bane, and presumably, fewer instances of talking to Barsad.

He can’t help but be a little disappointed. It was so, so boring just sitting in that hotel room most of the day, watching television and doing exercises to keep his mind occupied and to stop himself from freaking out. He kind of grew to enjoy Barsad’s visits, even if it meant he usually had to go fuck Bane afterwards. Barsad’s been pretty much his only human contact since he’s come here, and even though he’s not really much of a talker, he puts up with John’s inane chatter with his characteristic stiff-upper-lip-edness. His combat training is more than just little tricks John can make use of in a tight bind – it almost feels like Barsad is helping John reclaim some of his lost power, his _dignity._

John cringes. He’d have to apologize again for being such an asshole next time he sees him.

For the time being, however, it looks like he's stuck with Bane. Well, if what Barsad said is true about Bane, (and i most likely is, considering the source) at least being imprisoned in Bane’s suite might afford him some protection from Talia. That’s what he’s supposed to do now, please Bane. Please Bane, wait for a possible hostage exchange, and maybe try to weasel some information from him when his head isn't too clogged with pheromones. That way, John would have something to show Gordon, something that would prove John's enduring allegiance to the GCPD and maybe grant him a little redemption.

Bane squeezes him tightly, and the sheer possessiveness of it evoked a memory -

 _Bane would kill us both_ , Barsad had said, when John had asked him if he wasn’t at least a little bit interested in his offer.

Hmmmmm. Hold on a minute.

That wasn’t exactly a no.

\---

When Barsad walks into the room, the walls are painted a lugubrious blue, like Monet’s water lilies. It’s undulating, like the ripples from the dropped pebble of Barsad’s touch.

He’s lying on the bed, stretching languidly. He arches his back, writhing, dragging his hand up the flat planes of his stomach, pushing his shirt up to reveal a tantalizing strip of flesh. He smiles when he sees Barsad, beckons him seductively, looking up at him with those dark, dark eyes.

Barsad knows he shouldn’t.

“Do it.” The voice says, dripping from the ceiling.

Barsad can’t.

But then Barsad lays on top of him, and he’s so warm and soft and perfect. He pulls Barsad in for a kiss - Barsad can’t bring himself to stop it now. He’s pliant but not passive, supple and yielding to Barsad’s insistence.

_I will do whatever you want_

_How do you want me?_

_Vasily........_

The walls are swirling, swirling, fading from blue

to green

 to yellow

_No. No!_

John begins to struggle underneath him, breaking their kiss. But Barsad is bigger, stronger, more muscular. Barsad pins him down easily, forces his legs apart.

John bleeds out of his nose, dirtying his young face. His skin darkens with bruises, his lip splits of its own accord.  
John screams; he’s louder even than the walls

“Do it,” The voice is coming from everywhere and from nowhere and from inside

He can’t.

He _can’t._

Drip drip

But then he does

It’s not so bad


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to all y'all Bane/Blake shippers :-)  
> Also happy birthday JGL. Here, I wrote some porn about you.

John is bored.

At least being mind numbingly terrified gave John something to do.

Bane’s not around nearly as much as John had thought – he’s been gone since John’s moved into his suite. John wonders if it has something to do with the fact that the trapped police officers had been freed. It was kind of disappointing that John hadn't been the person who did it, but if it was a strike against Bane and Talia, well, he wasn’t in a position to complain.

He hadn’t seen Barsad either, and John getting worried. And, he was getting worried about the fact that he was getting worried.

He tells himself he needn’t bother: if there was anyone who could take of himself, John reasoned, it's Barsad.

To keep himself busy, John plays detective, snooping around Bane’s suite for clues about their plans or weaknesses. He’s still dead sure that they aren’t here to liberate Gotham, but they certainly don’t look hell bend on world domination either.  John knows they had secured a neutron bomb and were holding Gotham hostage with it, but to what end?

 How could Gordon mount a full fledged attack if they have no idea where the bomb even is?

Although Bane had taken up residence in the nicest hotel in Gotham, he wasn’t luxuriating in it like a proper evil supervillain. No Lamborghinis, no Rolexes, no bikini-clad female body guards. He wore the same grubby military garb as ever, better suited to some third world war zone than a five star hotel. In fact, Bane seemed to almost disdain the El Prado’s ornate surroundings: he had stripped his suite down to its bare essentials, much like John’s own hotel room cell. Bane certainly wasn’t the materialistic, hedonistic sort. Aside from his libido, there wasn’t much he actually indulged in. It made John wonder whether it was Talia who had chosen this place as their headquarters.

John stood out on the balcony, looking down on the swarms of terrorists coming and going. They seemed to be picking up their efforts lately – busying themselves more than usual. It made John’s conspiratorial mind go into overdrive.

The only good thing about being in Bane’s suite was the fact that it was much closer to the roof, and so John could go up there as much as he liked. Which he did, often. He’d run laps, do crunches, watch the sun set. Wonder where Barsad was and if he was okay.

 “You, boy.”

John whirled around and there was a terrorist standing behind him, grinning.

“Saw your video,” he said in a thick unplaceable accent, then made a fist and moved it back in forth in front of his mouth in demonstration. John clenches his jaw. That fucking _bitch._

“Yeah, what of it?” John snarls.

“No wonder Bane likes you. If I were in his place I would not want to be rid of you either.”

John’s face heats in embarrassment and anger. He hoped Barsad would come back soon, if at least to avoid being harassed like this.

“I bet you’re fucking jealous, you pathetic fuck. You couldn’t get it anywhere else unless it was by force.” John spat.

The terrorist’s face darkens. “Such a mouth on you, boy. I’d sample it for myself, but perhaps I might find your tight hole more to my liking.”

Without thinking, John growls and lunges at him. The guy parries, but John manages to block his counter strike. He’s got Barsad’s tricks, but unfortunately for him, so does John.  He's not nearly as skillful as Barsad. Suddenly John doesn’t feel nearly as bad for always losing to Barsad: it’s not that John’s an exceptionally shitty fighter, it’s just that Barsad is an exceptionally amazing one.

John fights viciously. He aims for all the weak spots and holds nothing back. He can tell the guy is not aiming for his face, probably hesitant to “ruin” Bane’s toy. Well fuck that - John's got no such inhibitions.

John breaks a grab and manages to punch the guy hard in the face. He leans into it and keeps contact as long as possible, just like Barsad instructed. John feels the cartilage of the guy’s nose crumple under his fist with an audible crack. He roars in pain and doubles over, blood gushing from the hollowed-in space where his nose used to be.

“You whore! You fucking _whore_ ,” He moans, clutching his mangled face. He screams something else in his native language, and John backs off, dumbstruck at his own strength.

 _That_ does _work._ He makes a mental note to thank Barsad.

John watches in sick fascination as the man writhes in pain, then backs away towards the stairwell and jogs down towards Bane’s suite, a smug smile plastered all over his face. 

_Let's see you stick your prick in me now, fucker._

\---

John is lying on his hotel room bed when Barsad enters. He didn’t knock, which is unusual, and John’s not waiting in ambush, which is also unusual.

Barsad doesn’t say anything as he moves over to the foot of the bed.

“I hear you destroyed Radek’s face,” Barsad says. John chews at his nail indifferently.

“Yeah.”

“They said you broke his nose, smashed in his front teeth.”

“Did I?” John says, but tries to keep the hint of self-satisfaction from his voice. “Are you pissed?”

“No, John.” Barsad says, and climbs up onto the bed. He slowly crawls up John’s body. “You did well.” He leans down and mouths at John’s clothed chest, and John arches a little into the heat. Barsad has none of Bane’s urgency or roughness in his touch. It’s more like he’s savoring John, like John’s a rare treat that he intends on relishing.

“You are a brave fighter,” Barsad says, then ducks his head down to kiss John’s stomach.

“......strong....”

Another kiss.

“....fierce....”

He finally comes forward to kiss John’s lips tenderly. He’s not demanding, patient for John to reciprocate. John sighs, opening his mouth, and Barsad deepens their kiss. John’s lost. It feels so good – this is something Bane could never take from him.

Barsad pulls back and gazes at him admiringly. His hand travels lower until it’s resting over John’s hardening cock. Barsad rubs it up and down. “......and I am proud of you.”

John moans.

Barsad head sinks back down, trailing kisses as he goes. Lower, lower. _God, yes._ Lower....

\---

John starts a little as he feels the bed dip. Then he remembers where he really is.

A dream. A _sex_ dream.

A sex dream about _Barsad._

John’s hard, achingly so. Nothing quite makes you feel like a randy teenager quite like waking up from a sex dream to find yourself grinding a pillow. He’s flipped over onto his back roughly to find Bane looming over him in the darkness.

_Bloody pheromones._

“Have you been dreaming of me, little bird?” he says.

John’s still only half-awake and still in a state of groggy horniness.

“Yeah,” John says. _If that’s what you want to believe, than whatever._

Bane growls in obvious approval.

“You are willing, John,” Bane says, but he phrases it like more of a statement than a question this time. He needn’t even ask; right now John would probably fuck Satan, Prince of Darkness given the opprotunity. Bane lifts him as easily as a rag doll and all but rips off John’s t-shirt. He then peels off John’s sweat pants, finding him erect and ready to be taken. John arches his hip up wantonly. He can’t help but feel a little embarrassed  at just how badly he wanted Bane to fuck him right now.

Bane spreads John’s legs and settles in between them, kneeling with his hard cock in his hand. John isn’t too far gone to stop him suddenly.

“Wait, wait.”

Bane looks down at him, brow furrowed.

“I, uh............let me get ready for you.” John stammers. “It’ll be better that way. For you.”

_For me._

Bane grunts and leans back, impatient. “Be quick.”

John scrambles to slick his fingers. It feels weird, doing this in front of Bane – so exposed.  Bane watches him hungrily as John fingers sink lower to circle his hole.

Bane’s pleasure - that’s what he’s here for. And he’ll do what he must to survive.

_You want a show, fucker?_

John slips a finger in and hums. He can’t hit his prostrate from this angle, but he knows Bane will, and it’s making him shiver with anticipation. In and out, one finger and then two. Bane’s fists clench at his sides, like he’s struggling to keep himself in check.

Bane can’t last long being teased like this, and it’s not long before Bane shoos away John’s hand and positions himself in its place.

John thought that maybe he’d be used to Bane’s girth by now, but somehow the push in always comes as a surprise. Bane didn’t give him a whole lot of time to prepare, and it hurts, but having him inside sates a deeper psychological craving than mere physical lust. Even through the pain, John’s head swims with want.

Bane thrusts deep and hard, enough to propel John several inches up the mattress. John tilts his hips up just so and, _yes, God,_ Bane’s cock slides against that spot over and over again. Bane’s cock stretches the walls of his ass deliciously, and it’s good, it’s _so good...._  

John strokes himself in time with Bane’s thrusts. From this position on his back, his hands are otherwise unoccupied with trying to keep himself upright or keeping Bane from crushing him. Bane allows John to do this, too focused on his own pleasure to really care what John does anyway.

John can’t last long like this and comes with a breathy moan, coating his stomach with release. Bane rides him out before he too spasms and comes deep inside.

Bane collapses next to John, gathering him in his arms so that they’re lying side by side, John’s back to Bane’s chest. It makes him feel so small, wrapped in Bane’s embrace. Small and safe. He thinks this might be Bane’s favorite position too, just because he suspects Bane likes how slight John is compared to him.  John sighs in pleasure. This is almost better than the sex – he feels so high lying here, still hazy from orgasm. All thoughts of Gordon, of Gotham, of Talia, of Barsad sink lower in the recesses of his mind as he slips into a blissful sleep like some hopeless heroin junkie.

\---

When John awakes, his mind is clear, even though he can still feel the heat of Bane’s chest against his back. The light is slowly beginning to seep in the windows, it must be almost morning. Good – that means Bane won’t be staying here much longer. John feels clammy and nauseous, laying here covered in dried come from last night. _Ugh_. Bane is so goddamn hot and sweaty that John wants nothing more than to take a long hot shower and scrub his stench off.

The slight shift behind him lets him know that Bane’s awake, and the motion nuzzles Bane’s erection against John’s ass. John swallows dryly.

John wriggles slightly, trying to weasel his way out of Bane’s embrace, but Bane just tightens his grip around him. It knocks the air out of John’s lungs; John has no doubt that Bane could squeeze him to death like a boa constrictor if he felt like it.

 “Stay,” Bane rumbles, voice still raw and gravelly from sleep.

John huffs in annoyance.

“I just want a quick shower, I’m all sticky. I’ll be back.”

Bane grunts in refusal. He shifts his hips again and John feels Bane cock press against his thigh more insistently. John’s getting nervous now. Surely Bane doesn’t want to fuck him again?

Bane grinds himself against John lazily, holding him with the kind of strength that’s impossible to fight against. John squeezes his eyes closed, tensing all his muscles. He’s never been fucked without the haze of pheromones to numb his mind – he doesn’t know if he can, it’s too much....

“Are you willing, John?”

_No. No, no, not now, not again, please....._

“I’m still sore,” he blurts out, once Bane makes a particularly menacing thrust against him. Bane growls. He clearly doesn’t like to be told no.

 “I could suck you instead,” John says in conciliation, hating how weak he sounds.

“I am your master. You will not deny me.” Bane says, rolling John over onto his stomach and pressing him down with a palm to the back of John’s shoulder blades.  John can’t help but feel a flutter of panic as Bane mounts him, aligning himself with John’s still slick hole.

“Are you willing, John?” Bane repeats, as if he couldn’t tell John’s answer by the way John’s muscles are tensing under his touch.

_I can’t, please don’t make me._

Hazily, John recalls what Barsad said – about how Bane is his only hope, how he’s the only person who could save him from Talia. How he needs to wait it out until Bane becomes open to a hostage exchange with Gordon. Right now, however, John was so goddamn tempted to take his chances with Talia just to get out of this. But he can’t, he knows he can’t. He couldn’t refuse even if he wanted to; this is the only way he’ll survive.

“Yes.” John says, defeated, and Bane slams in.

John never thought he’d be thankful for the pheromone thing, but _holy fuck,_ without them there’s nothing to anaesthetize him from the horrible sensations wracking his body. John sobs, stifling it by pressing his face into the mattress. He’s so tense, already sore from the previous night, and there’s not enough lubrication to make this even close to bearable.

Bane either doesn’t know or simply doesn’t care that John’s writhing in pain underneath him, but he growls when John clenches up around him.

“Relax,” He growls, squeezing John’s shoulder to emphasize his point.

But John can’t, not with that intrusion splitting him open.  Lord knows he does try - he’s scared Bane will tear him in two if he doesn’t. He tries to just breathe, breathe damnit. His face feels hot and he knows he’s crying, but tries to hide it by pressing his face into the sheets.

His only comfort is that Bane doesn’t last long. With a few brutal thrusts, Bane comes deep inside, wheezing harshly. It makes John feel disgusting, _used._  He’s never felt so weak.

Bane groans and collapses on top of him, making John pant raggedly for breath. _Pull out, pull out, c’mon you sick fuck....._

When Bane does, finally, it feels like a demon’s been exorcised from his body. John lies there, unmoving, willing Bane to just get the fuck out already and leave him alone. John wants that shower more than ever, but he’s in so much pain he doesn’t know how he’ll be able to drag himself to the bathroom.

Since Bane doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood to be anything but a fucking asshole, he flops himself back down next to John and collects him so that John’s lying on his chest. John has no strength to resist, so instead he pictures himself taking one of the pillows and smothering it over Bane’s mask until the fucker collapses from lack of oxygen. He knows he couldn’t in real life, but just envisioning it is profoundly satisfying.

Bane’s mask wheezes gently and it gives John an idea.

No, John could never best Bane when he is strong, but what if he was made weak somehow?  
  
 _The mask._

John tilts his head up to look at Bane, gauging his reaction. Bane’s calm, eyes hooded, and mellow from climax. Encouraged, John settles himself on top of him. It makes his skin crawl to be this close, to be doing this, but lying passively in Bane’s arms, defeated, is much worse.

Chocking down his revulsion, John leans down and presses a kiss to Bane’s thick neck. He vaguely remembers doing this when his head was drugged with pheromones. It takes all his considerable acting skills to make this seem as consensual as possible.

He braces himself in case Bane bats him away, but he doesn’t. Bane’s buying the act. He rumbles a little in surprise, but allows John to kiss up his neck, up to where the skin meets metal.

John’s never got a good look at Bane’s mask up close before– usually he’s too incapacitated by pheromones to be able to think about anything other than sex. Now that John’s head is clear, however, he slides into detective mode. As he kisses and licks, he looks for weak spots along the mask. What’s it made of? How does it hook on? _What does it even do?_

Gingerly, he reaches up to run his fingers up Bane’s chest and neck, under the pretense of sex-induced intimacy. _Ugh._ Bane sighs metallically, the air from the outtake fluttering against John’s skin. It’s not a material John’s familiar with – like some kind of grade-a, futuristic, state-of-the-art military plastic compound. He can’t find a latch for it, and it’s so snug it digs into Bane’s face in a very uncomfortable-looking way. It smells rather.....medicinal.  

His stream of thought is interrupted as Bane takes John’s face in his hands and pulls him back. John worries that he’s made some mistake, that he was too obvious. Bane stares openly at him, eyes unreadable, and John does his best to keep himself from looking too suspicious. His heart pounds. It’s so, so quiet.....

“You may go wash,” Bane says finally, and John tries not to appear too relieved.

Gingerly, he peels himself off of Bane and limps to the master bathroom. He hurts all over, but the promise of hot, clean water is enough incentive to drag his bones into the shower.

He stands there under the water far longer than necessary. It’s scorching hot, just the way he likes it. Back at his shitty apartment the hot water would run out after ten minutes, but the El Prado’s got more than enough to satisfy him, and that’s saying something. Safe under the muffling pulses of water, John finally lets out the pathetic sob he’s been holding back all morning.

He emerges some forty minutes later, when he’s sure the tremor in his voice has abated. He prays to God Bane’s gone by now.

He shuts the water off, but no such luck - Bane’s still in the suite, talking to someone. Someone angry.

John wraps around his towel around his waist and tip-toes towards the bathroom door, pressing his ear towards it and listening intently. There is only one person ballsy enough to take that tone with Bane. John’s tenses.

“........learn his place, that that behavior will not be tolerated. Give him over to me, my love,“ a woman says angrily, and John’s heart stops. “.....How could you even defend him now, knowing what he’s done? What would our men think?”

_No, no!_

“John Blake is mine and I will deal with him as I see fit. If Radek was so easily bested, than that is what he deserves.”

“You are too easily moved by your little whore. It is making you weak,” Talia bites.

Bane’s voice becomes darker. “Perhaps if you hadn’t insisted on sharing that video Raduk wouldn’t have been so provoked.”

Talia’s tone changes too – going from aggravated to entreating in mere seconds. “My love, my friend, _habibi._ I am only trying to help you. I hate to see him cloud your judgement so; I fear he has cast a spell on you....”

“Enough Talia.” Bane says soft and menacing. “I will deal with him.”

“But, my love....”

There is a long pause . John can sense the tension between them from his position behind the bathroom door. He wills Talia to get the fuck out.

“ Fine.” Talia says finally. “See that you do.” He hears her footsteps storm out.

Did Bane just _save_ him?

He can’t stay in the bathroom forever, he knows Bane is waiting for him. He dresses slowly, trying to put off leaving his safe zone for as long as possible. Mustering his courage, he turns the knob carefully and peeks out. Bane’s standing just outside, staring at him intently. He knows John’s heard the whole thing, John can see it in his eyes.

John freezes in fear at the illegible look on Bane’s face. Bane steps towards John slowly and John cowers against the bathroom door, trying to make himself disappear. He’s about to offer some sort of explanation, of how Raduk had goaded him, of how he was just defending himself........

“Bane, I.....”

Bane slaps him. It’s enough to make John’s head whip to one side, but it’s not nearly as hard as he knows Bane is able. In fact, it’s not even as hard as Bane’s slapped him before.

Bane watches John rub at his stinging cheek. His eyes crinkle ever so slightly from underneath the mask.  Then, he cups his hand around John’s own.

“There,” Bane says. “You’ve been dealt with.”

He turns and leaves, leaving John flabbergasted.


	7. Chapter 7

Barsad twists in his bed viciously, heart racing. He’s drenched in sweat, panting shakily, face wet. Not for the first time, either.

That dream. That dream _again._

_Jesus fucking Christ, get a hold of yourself._

He scrubs his hand over his face, sucking in deep breaths. He hasn’t thought of that in years; he’d _forbidden_ himself from thinking of it. Now, those memories come rushing back unbidden almost every night. He feels his carefully constructed facade being chipped away bit by bit, exposing the raw nerve beneath.

Why? Why now?

He wants to cry out in frustration, but he doesn’t, because he tells himself it doesn’t matter.

_It’s over now, in the past. There’s nothing to be done about it._

Then why doesn’t it feel over? Why hadn’t he snuffed out those memories for good?

  _Hiding under the floor boards as the secret police stood overhead....._

_The last time he saw his brother......_

_Forced onto a train, travelling east, east, to the very end of the world, into nothingness...._

_The unending daylight, the barking dogs, the imminent, pitiless winter...._

**Over!** It’s over. _It’s over it’s over it’s over it’s over it’s over it’s over._

Barsad slams his fists against his temples until those thoughts are beaten back down under the haze of numbing pain.

_This is who I am now, nothing else matters._

Barsad peels the sheet off his sweaty body and allows the cool air to circulate over his feverish skin. His mind eventually settles and he carefully pieces himself back together.

But even if he could bury the memory back into the deep recesses of his consciousness, he can’t seem to forget the look on John’s face when he was shaking with panic, tears spilling from his dark, dark eyes. He doesn't know why it bothered him so; Barsad had seen panic attacks happen plenty of times before. Hell, in more cases than not, Barsad had been the cause of some poor fool's suffering. They'd beg, cry, bleed, scream, and it'd be nothing to him. He always executed the League’s work with the same brutal precision, earning him the fear and respect of the other recruits. Not even the most heartfelt plea could stir his compassion or make him lose sight of the greater goal; anyone who stood in the way would be cut down like sheaves of wheat.

So why was John so different?

_John’s totally ruined. His face is red, and he seems like he’s struggling to talk without his voice hitching. He sniffles softly every thirty seconds or so. Barsad feels the way John looks but is better at hiding it._

_“Jesus, Barsad,” he says absently. “And I thought my life was fucked up.”_

_“No more than most,” Barsad says. He hands John his lighter, and John takes a long drag on the second cigarette.  He closes his eyes and breathes out, then offers the pack and the lighter back to his Barsad. Barsad shakes his head. “Keep it.”_

_“I really shouldn’t be smoking again, Gordon would kill me. Besides, this looks like a nice lighter. I used to always lose my lighters.”_

_“I’m sure Gordon wouldn’t begrudge you a smoke or two.” Barsad says, thankful John’s not asking about the gulag anymore, even though Barsad knows he must want to. “He’s trying to work out a hostage exchange for you.”_

_“Yeah?” John says, eyes lighting up hopefully._

_“Yes. Bane wouldn’t take it though.”_

_“Oh. Of course.” John slumps again. “Because Bane loooooooves me.”_

_“He’ll tire of you eventually, he always does. Talia will dangle some other pretty young thing in front of him and he’ll forget you. In the meantime, please him. Don’t give him a reason to kill you or to hand you over to Talia. Wait it out, let his passion fade of its own accord. Then I suppose I could try to convince him to go through with the trade.”_

_John’s features soften and he looks so, so young. “Really? You’d....you’d do that for me?”_

_Barsad shrugs. “If it means getting some of my best men back, then yes.”_

_It’s totally transparent and Barsad knows it._

_“Thank you.” John says sincerely, eyes full of an undecipherable emotion._

_Barsad tries to ignore it. "Patience, John. That's all."_

_They’re quiet for a minute, then John sniffles, obviously getting uncomfortable._

_“You know,” John starts, “You could ask me anything you wanted too. I’d tell you.”_

_Barsad raises his eyebrows. “Like an exchange?”_

_“Well, it seems only fair, I’m always hounding you....” John starts, uncertain. He takes another drag on his cigarette._

_“Because you’re trying to ‘solve’ me, is that it?”_

_John blushes, looking down. God, he’s lovely, even with his tear-soaked, blotchy face and runny nose and disheveled curls. “Yeah, well. I am trying to become a detective you know. Gordon thinks I show promise, it was my powers of deduction that helped crack the Genovese case. But whatever, forget it, it was a stupid idea. I doubt my life is as exciting as yours anyway.”_

Exciting. _That’s one way to describe it._

_“Although to be fair,” John continues, “by Gotham’s standards I definitely have what people would call an “exciting life.”  When people play the pity game against me, I win every time.”_

_“The pity game?”_

_“Yeah. You know.  They’d say something like , “My mother never liked me.” Then I say, “I grew up in foster homes.”  I win that round, you see? Then they counter with, “my dad has cancer.” Then I’d say, “My parents are dead.” Ding Ding Ding! I win again, motherfucker.” He takes a drag. “Whenever they think they’ve got something on me, I play the orphan card. Nothing trumps the orphan card.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Except, I guess, the soviet labor camp card. You’d probably win if you played that on me.”_

_“I suppose.” Barsad says._

_John runs a hand through his hair tensely, like he knows he’s pushing his luck a little with the topic. He shifts direction. “Well lucky me, I get to add a whole new card to my already full deck. “Sex slave to notorious international terrorist.” There’s one I haven’t come across before. I’d have to pull that one out just on special occasions, in case I meet someone whose life is more fucked up than mine.”_

_“Like me?” Barsad ventures._

_John smirks. “Yeah, probably.”_

_John goes quiet, taking a moment to watch a flock of geese fly by overhead._

_“......I’d still win.” Barsad says, smiling in a warm, yet macabre way. John’s stunned at first, but then reciprocates with a dopey grin of his own. He has dimples when he smiles – Why hadn’t Barsad noticed that before?_

_“I don’t think I’ll ever solve you, Barsad.”_

\---

Barsad learns later that day that Gordon had gained a foothold in Gotham south-central, cutting off their supply lines to the inner city. Worse, the men trapped underground had been freed. It was a huge shift in Gotham’s power balance, and he already knew Talia wasn’t going to be happy.

She was indeed in a sourer mood than usual, distaste plastered plainly across her features during their meeting with the other League generals. Their position here at the El Prado had been compromised; they would have to evacuate and move somewhere more secure until the purge of Gotham was complete.  It was decided that they would hold out until the end of the week, pack up, and move into their secure base in the sewers.

Talia was not happy about it _at all._

 _“_ Have a drink we me, brother,” She says after the meeting’s conclusion, draining the last of her fine scotch into two glasses before Barsad had a chance to answer.

She hands one to Barsad and lies back on the sofa. If Barsad hadn’t seen her pour both glasses at once and take a sip herself, he would have refused it.

“Oh, my brother,” she says exasperatedly. “I’d wager that Constantinople went down easier than this.”

Barsad smirks, more out of necessity than out of amusement. He just wants to finish the drink and leave as quickly as possible, maybe take John up to the roof again. John had liked that.

 “It always gets a little maddening in the end, but it will pass. It always does.” Barsad replies, sipping at the scotch. “Gotham will fall like the rest. We just must endure the storm.”

Talia smiles grimly. “And you? You don’t seem too strained these days. Barsad, my brother. Always so calm, so composed. I envy you. I am too passionate for my own good sometimes.” She takes a sip and hums in appreciation. “There’s nothing like a fine single malt to still my mind, or a pipefull of Arabian hashish.”

 Barsad shrugs. “It is simply my nature.”

Talia nods, not really listening. “And Bane simply needs a hole to fuck.”

Barsad keeps his face neutral.

“Bane has moved him up into his suite. Did you know?” Talia continues casually.

No, Barsad hadn’t known that. That’s.....uncharacteristic of him.

“Is that right,” he says, hoping she’d stop the conversation there.

“Bane’s quite taken with him, like you said. I would almost say he was rather _enchanted._ Crane does fine work, does he not?”

“I suppose.”

Talia face turns cold. “They see you walking him around, like a dog. I sent for him with two of my men and he damn near broke one of their fingers, using the little tricks _you’ve_ been teaching him.”

Barsad swallows. Of course she knows about that.

“And I wonder why that is. Why would you help him, hmm? The Gothamite police officer, Gordon’s little favorite? I never thought I’d have to doubt your loyalty, Barsad, but lately.....”

“My loyalty is unwavering,” Barsad says firmly. “You should know that better than anyone.”

“Then you must think me a fool, Barsad, and I don’t like to be played for a fool,” Talia spits. “Tell me, brother, when you touch yourself at night, do you imagine fucking him roughly from behind, on his hands and knees? Or do you _make love_ to him like some harlequin heroine? I don’t think Bane would like that you’ve been spending so much time with his little toy. He might start to get _ideas,_ and you know how protective he can be of his tart du jour. He would be most disgruntled if our dear John was no longer tight enough to please him.” Her voice turns sweet. “But don’t you fret, brother. Soon you’ll get your turn. Everyone will get a turn, once Bane is through with him. _I will see to that.”_

She downs the last of her scotch and rises.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” She says amicably, and walks out.

Once he hears the door close behind her, Barsad breathes out shakily, his heart thumping erratically in his chest.

_John. Oh John._

_I was a fool to put you at risk._

As much as he hated to admit it, Talia was right. He _had_ been playing with fire all this time. He’d let this thing....whatever it is......cloud his judgement and distract him from his life’s work, his true mission.  If Bane even began to suspect.....

Barsad shudders.

He has to stop it, for both their sakes. No matter what he truly wanted.

_I’m sorry John. I’m so sorry._

\---

John can’t sleep.

He’s been lying in bed for hours now, but his brain doesn’t seem to want to power down.

_At least after a good fuck with Bane I can count on a decent night’s rest._

The incident replayed in his head over and over again. Talia coming for him, Bane defending him, Bane’s slap-on-the-wrist (cheek?) punishment. Barsad had been right – Bane _was_ protecting him from Talia. So.... that’s good, John supposes. He has the Bane situation under control at least -  because that bitch is still out for _blood._

John runs it through his head again, for the thousandth time. His best bet is to wait it out, like Barsad said. Wait for Bane to lose interest and become open to the possibility of a hostage exchange. John clung feverishly to the hope that Barsad would keep his word and try to get that process underway. He had no reason not to trust him, as ludicrous as it may seem. In fact, he had come to trust in his kidnapper more than in several of the foster parents he had been stuck with as a kid.

Except that he hadn’t seen him in days.....

John tries not to think about that.

There’s just one thing: what if Bane _doesn’t_ get bored of him? From moving John into his suite to his seemingly boundless sexual appetite, if anything, Bane’s been becoming _increasingly_ attached.

Well. There’s a catch-22 if ever John heard one.

Why his life so goddamn ridiculous?

He hears the door open to Bane’s suite and he pretends he’s sleeping, as if that would stop Bane if he wanted a fuck. The footsteps aren’t heavy enough to be Bane’s, however, so John hazards a look.

It’s Barsad.

John stifles a sigh of relief.

John rubs his eyes tiredly and sits up. He wants to say, _thank god, where have you been you fucker? I was getting worried,_ but that might be too embarrassing. So instead he says, “You look like shit.”

Barsad hadn’t knocked, which is unusual, and he’s standing at the foot of the bed expressionlessly. This almost reminds him of...

“Get up.” Barsad says without preamble.

John smirk fades when he sees two other guards walk in. John crawls out of bed, eyeing them warily

“Barsad, what are they doing ....”

“Put this on, we’re leaving” Barsad says tersely, handing John a black hood.

“What?”

Barsad says nothing, just keeps his arms outstretched.

“Like, all of us? We’re all leaving?” He doesn’t like the unsympathetic look on Barsad’s face. “You’re joking....”

“Put it on, Blake. Now.”

_He hasn’t called me by my last name in weeks._

“What’s going on? Where are we going?”  
  
“That is of no concern to you.” Barsad says flatly.

No, no. This isn’t right. Barsad’s never talked to him like this. John digs in his heels, suddenly very nervous.

“No. I won’t.”

Barsad clenches his jaw. "I won't ask you again." 

John freezes, unsure of what Barsad’s playing at. He’s so unlike the gentle man he had been speaking to last week on the roof. What happened?

Barsad advances on him, cold and determined, and John braces himself for a fight. John thinks he sees Barsad’s face thaw for a fraction of a second, as if in apology _,_ but then again it’s dark in here - he might have imagined it.

He doesn’t know why he bothers resisting; Barsad is as crisp and precise as ever, wrestling him to the floor unceremoniously in under a minute. Sometimes John forgets how goddamn _fast_ he is.

“Barsad! What the fuck, man? Get off me, f _uck_.” John snarls angrily. He’s always hated always losing to Barsad, but right now it feels so different than all those other little playful tussles they’ve had in the past. This just felt....merciless. Barsad places a knee at the small of John's back and grabs his wrists, cuffing them behind his back.

Wordlessly, Barsad slides the hood over John’s face.

_Barsad._

_How could you?_

\---

When Barsad walks into the room, the walls are shadowed in black, like the inside of a Caravaggio, tinting the ungodly yellow paint a subdued brown.  One lone beam of light cascades down from a single bare light bulb, illuminating the figure on the floor. It’s raining outside, but the ceiling must be leaky, because droplets of water trickle down onto Barsad’s neck.

John’s sobbing, hands curled protectively over his head. When he hazards to look up, his eyes light  in recognition.

“Vasily...?” he chokes. “Is it really you?” He’s beat up almost beyond identification, his once immaculate face marred with bruises.

Barsad hardens himself, clenches his jaw as he looks down at him. It’s been so, so long since he’d seen him last. He’s grown, a young man now. Barsad supposes he’d be beautiful, if he weren’t so badly beaten up.

A mix of relief, happiness and pain flash across John’s face.

“God.....what did they do to you?” John breathes. “You look.....so...”

Barsad clenches his jaw, trying to swallow the twinge of pity he feels building in the back of his throat.

“They sent me to Kolyma,” Barsad says, looking down at him callously. ”....Because of you.”

John’s eyes widen in horror and new tears spill out. “God, oh God, _Kolyma,_ Vasily.....I’m so sorry, I had no idea.....please, you have to believe me, I didn’t want to, they made me....I was so afraid...” John whimpers and clings at Barsad’s pant legs from his place on the floor. “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret it, that I don’t think of you...I’ll never forgive myself, never....”

“Do it,” Cyril says sharply.

John’s panicked eyes skirt to Cyril, then fall back on Barsad’s entreatingly. “Please, no,” he whispers. “Vasily, this isn’t you.....I know you. Please. You aren’t like them....”

Barsad hesitates. This is wrong. Even after all this, after the years lost, he hadn’t stopped caring for her, thinking of her, wondering where she was and if she was alright. Tears are spilling from her dark, dark eyes...and he can’t.

He _can’t._

But then again.....

“Do it,” Cyril repeats, more insistent this time. “Prove to me where your loyalty lies.”

Barsad’s lost everything, has nothing, _is_ nothing. Because of _her._ He looks down at her, pathetic _wretch,_ and the anger in him festers anew, consuming his mercy, blinding him with hate. She doesn’t deserve his forgiveness. This is his family now.

 “No, Vasily, _please_....”

Barsad hardens himself. _You’re wrong, Vera. This is who I am now._

“Now, Barsad.”

Then he does.

And he’s never the same again.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

John was wrong to think his hotel room at the El Prado was stifling, At least it had windows.

He’s underground somewhere, and now John was _aching_ for Bane’s suite up at the El Prado. It’s dark and dank down here, and unbearably claustrophobic. John never liked tight closed spaces, and this place was doing nothing to ease his anxiety. He feels like he’s constantly on the brink of another panic attack.

Bane’s new room is furnished with nothing but a cot, a desk, a bookshelf, and a locked chest. Oddly enough, this suits Bane much better – he always looked so ridiculous juxtaposed against the gaudy opulence of the hotel.

With nothing better to do, John wanders about the room. The bookshelf is packed with old beat-up books that John would never, ever read if he could help it. Those “old classics” they make you study in school, but that nobody really likes: _The Iliad_ , Plato’s _Republic_ , St. Augustine’s _City of God_ , _the Divine Comedy,_ Machiavelli’s _the Prince._

He picks one at random and sits at the desk – lying on the bed might be too much of an invitation if Bane should come waltzing in. Milton’s _Paradise Lost_. Christ, it would almost be better to be bored.

He’s immediately put off by the pretentious wordiness of it, and then suddenly he’s having high school flashbacks of _King Lear_ and _Rime of the Ancient Mariner_. He never liked poetry. What’s the point of moody-as-fuck Romantic poetry when you can have acid Scandinavian death metal to fuel your teenage angst? Not that he’s in a position to be choosy about entertainment options right now. He focuses stubbornly on the book in an attempt to ignore how the brick walls seemed to want to close in and swallow him whole. His eyes skim over several lines and he notices he hasn’t absorbed a single thing.

His mind wanders and of course he can’t help thinking of Barsad. He chides himself for ever trusting him, for ever believing he was different. Barsad _is_ his enemy. What else did he expect?

 _Fuck him_. John will figure out a way out of here with or without Barsad’s help.

Back to the book. Focus.

It was slow reading, yes, and he has to stop every twenty seconds to look shit up in the appendix, but at least it was killing time. And to his surprise, it wasn’t bad. Well, ok. Most of it was bad, especially all those long rambling angel scenes.  Yes, you’re in heaven, everything is peachy, how fucking nice for you. The parts with Satan, however, were decidedly more interesting. Milton wrote him like some kind of tragic hero, standing up to God’s tyranny and getting tossed into the Kingdom of Hell for all eternity for his trouble.  Some of the passages are underlined and there are notes scrawled in Arabic along the margins. John wonders if it was Bane who had done it, if those passages mean anything to him.....

If Bane reads this shit for fun, then he’s more of a freak than John had initially assumed.

Speak of the devil – literally - John’s train of thought is interrupted as Bane rumbles in.  He peers down at the book open in front of John, recognizing it immediately.

“Paradise Lost, John?” he says, bemused.

They’ve been separated long enough that John feels himself start to react. He tries his best to ignore it.

“This is the best there is until you bring me an Xbox,” John says, already starting to roll his hips against his seat. “You’ve read it?”

“Yes.” Bane says, resting a heavy hand on John’s shoulder from behind and squeezing gently. John swallows.

“You....like this kind of thing?”

Bane reaches over his shoulder and thumbs at an underlined passage, a quote by Satan. His mask presses into the junction of John’s neck and John shivers at the intimacy.

_Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice,_  
 _To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell,_  
 _Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heav’n._

_Here at least We shall be free_

_For none sure will claim in Hell precedence._

“Sometimes a hero comes in the most unlikely of guises.” Bane says thoughtfully.

Before John has a chance to think on that, Bane pulls him up from the chair and walks him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the cot. John falls and Bane follows him down, causing the cot to groan and creak under his weight.

John’s head is beginning to swim, a few more minutes and he’ll be totally undone. Bane forces a knee between John’s thighs and the friction makes him moan. He has to try to ask.....

“Why are we down here?” he says, already dead sure Bane won’t give him a direct answer when he’s already obviously hard and sex is imminent.

“For our safety,” Bane says dismissively.

_For our safety. That means Gordon must be finally getting the upper hand..._

“I don’t like it, it’s too cramped” John says, his thoughts beginning to scramble. Bane’s hands are so insistent, tugging at his clothes. “I want to go back to....ah – “ Bane grinds his knee up against John’s cock – “to our suite.”

 _Our_ suite. Live-in girlfriend, indeed.

 “Not possible.”  
  
“Well, could I go outside for a few minutes at least? I just want to...”

“You will learn to like it here.” Bane growls, sticking two fingers up to John’s mouth and pressing them in, as if to tell John to shut up.

Bane thrusts them in and John sucks them like he knows Bane would like. They’re warm and salty and comforting in a twisted kind of way, because if there’s one thing John loves more than Bane’s smell its Bane’s taste (ugh). It’s both exhilarating and numbing, slowing his mind and revving his body. Bane gets a little carried away, though, and pushes them into the back of John’s throat, making John choke.

Bane likes it when John gags.

John retracts his head a little in protest, and Bane withdraws his fingers. John thinks he should be pissed about it but he isn’t, not while Bane’s taste is still lingering on his tongue.

“Are you willing, John?”

John’s eyes are glassy, hair a mess spread across the pillow. He just wants to get off; he doesn’t even care anymore that this is wrong in every possible sense of the word. He can’t muster the mental energy to hold back:

“Yes, God.” John moans, as Bane’s knee slides up deliciously against his erection.

“Tell me. Tell me what you want.” Bane’s voice is low and predatory.

John’s past being shy about it. “I want you to make me come....ah..”

Satisfied, Bane all but rips off John’s shirt, and sits back to tug down his jeans. Then he settles back between John’s legs.

It crosses John’s mind that he hasn’t prepared, that he has no lube, that Bane will fuck him dry, and his knot of dread forms in his stomach. He can’t do it like this, fuck.... His eyes widen in surprise when Bane reaches into his cargo pants pocket and pulls out a small bottle and squirts some lube on his fingers.

“You want this?” Bane says.

He slides his hand down to John’s hole and rubs small circles over the quivering muscle, feeling John clench nervously. This is....really unusual. John has only ever done it himself.  Except wait......no. Someone else had fingered him that first time. Barsad? Jesus, it had better not have been Barsad.

“Oh!” His trail of thought is interrupted as Bane pushes one finger in. His one finger is thicker than two of John’s combined. It’s uncomfortable, but not painful. Bane pushes it in and drags it out experimentally.   _More._ John rotates his hips around Bane’s fingers wantonly, trying to urge him deeper.

“More, give me more,” he mumbles incoherently. He’ll have to remember to be mortified about this later.

Bane obliges, pushing in a second finger, and John whimpers. It hurts now, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting it. He soon begins to relax, allowing Bane to open him up, make him loose and ready. Bane is just..... _everywhere_ on him, covering him, swamping his vision, setting every sense alight. Bane’s holding himself up with his other hand, but even so, John feels the weight of him crushing him in a pleasant yet borderline painful way. He’s so warm to the touch, burning heat and hard muscle and  -

“Fuck! Oh fuck,” John pants, arching off the cot as Bane crooks his fingers deep inside.

“You like that, boy?” Bane growls and does it again.

“Yes, yes, I like it,” John squirms, rocking himself in time to Bane’s thrusts. Oh god, it was never like this when he prepped himself. He’s so hard, he’s sure he could come. Jolts of pleasure wash over his body with ever flick of Bane’s fingers, just out of sync with the rhythm of his breath.

He reaches down for his cock, but Bane swats his hand away.

“From me and me alone,” He growls, eyes coal black with lust.

John whimpers. Bane seems to relish his agony, because every time John bucks his hips a little too aggressively, Bane pulls away. It’s so bloody frustrating that John wants to punch him in his fucking muzzle.

Bane shifts, using his other hand to hold John down. He presses it firmly on John’s belly, just where he’s _pressing up into him with the other hand_ , and sweet Jesus, the pressure is so delicious that John can’t hold back. Without warning, he comes violently all over himself, clamping down hard on Bane's fingers. John shudders as the spasms of orgasm engulf him, and he moans so loudly he’s sure all of Gotham could hear. Bane watches with avid interest bordering on bewilderment, and continues his ministrations until John falls back, boneless, onto the cot.

He’s sure that’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had and God, what he wouldn’t do for a cigarette right now.

“Good. Good boy...”

This would just about be the time when he’d cocoon himself in Bane’s arms and ride the endorphin high into a dreamless sleep, but unfortunately Bane had yet to be satisfied. He was still hard and pressing insistently against John’s thigh, eager for his own release.

John didn’t really notice when Bane took out his cock and grabbed John under the knees to slide him forwards towards him, but he did feel it when Bane sunk in. He was so relaxed and pliant, however, that even considering Bane’s girth it wasn’t too painful. Bane rutted into John like an animal, enough to make the cot’s headboard slam into the wall with every thrust. John’s oversensitive body couldn’t handle the extra stimulation; his cock began to stir once again. He’s half-hard by the time Bane comes deep inside, grunting.

The cot was much, much smaller than their king size bed up at the suite, so Bane doesn’t have much room in which to lie down. He simply slouches over John, half holding himself up as John futilely rolls his hips against him, seeking further stimulation. Bane doesn’t linger; once his breathing evens out, he hauls himself up off John, and the cot creaks with relief.

“Where are you going?” John says drowsily as Bane puts a fresh shirt on. He tries to sit himself up but he can barely lift his own head, and he’s so horny that the thought of Bane’s departure is distinctly unappealing.

“I have business to attend to.”

“Just a few more minutes?” _Come and finish me off, you bastard._

“No, John,” Bane says exasperatedly. “Stay here and do not make trouble. I will be back soon.”

_Fine. Leave, I don’t care._

After the door closes after him, John lies back. He strokes himself with wild abandon, but frustratingly, he can’t seem to find any relief. It’s like a mental roadblock – it feels good, he has the same technique that’s gotten him off before, he goes through all his favorite porn scenes in his head – and it’s just not enough.

John spots Bane’s old shirt, the one he’d been wearing when he first came in, lying in the corner. Tentatively, he gets up off the bed and reaches for it. He’s done some dumb-ass shit when he’s horny, but this....

_This is the worst idea I’ve ever had._

It doesn’t feel like the worst idea, however, when John takes one deep sniff in. It smells like Bane – earthy, musky, masculine. With his other hand, John fingers at his hole, at where Bane’s release is seeping out of him. A rush of pleasure sweeps down his spine and straight to his cock. He comes in a single downstroke.

After the haze of orgasm clears, John has enough sense to feel like a dirty pervert, but that doesn’t stop him from jerking off two more times with the shirt pressed over his mouth. _Gross._ What he wouldn’t give for a nice hot shower right about now. Totally spent, it’s not long before he drifts into a state of semi-consciousness.

He wakes some time later, wincing. He dresses quickly, in case Bane should decide to come back and see him splayed out so indecently. Not a moment too soon; Bane comes storming in not long after, just as John is trying to work through the next chapter of Paradise Lost. Bane’s agitated by the looks of it and John’s glad - that probably means Gordon’s getting under his skin.

“Is something wrong?” John says impulsively. John knows he probably shouldn’t ruffle Bane’s feathers, but sometimes these things slip out of his mouth against his better judgement.

Bane raises his eyebrows. “Nothing that concerns you.” He says darkly.

_Touchy, touchy. Gordon got you on the run, Bane?_

 “I think it does. I’m caught in the middle of this war you’re waging, you can at least tell me....”

“I don’t have to provide you an explanation.” Bane snaps, startling John into silence. Bane can be fucking scary.

Since the snarky route doesn’t seem to be paying off, John softens his features.  He’s had to beat his boyish looks down under a GCPD-worthy scowl for some time, but it sure used to come in handy when he got himself in trouble as a kid. He needs information from Bane, and he’s not above putting on a little act to do it.

And, Bane _does_ find him pretty, after all. (ugh)

“Well.....Can’t blame a guy for trying,” John says in his best ‘young’ voice, that voice that got him out of trouble when his foster mom caught him with pot.  And that other time when he was busted for vandalizing the overpass over 92nd street.  Oh, and when he cheated on his biology test in eighth grade. How they let a miscreant like him into the GCPD is a mystery. “I’ve been your prisoner for weeks, and I still have no idea why I’m here or what you want. I’m worried about what’s going to happen. To Gotham, to Gordon.......to me. Please.”  

John’s scared Bane can see though him at first, but then he seems to soften a little, tension dissolving from his massive frame. Inside John surges with victory.  

_And the Oscar goes to........_

His confidence falters, however, when Bane crowds him against the brick wall, two massive arms on either side of John’s head.

“You won’t be harmed, John.” Bane says, so vehemently that John doesn’t even have to fake the shock he knows is plastered across his face. Bane thumbs at John’s jaw line and throat.

 “And......and Gotham?” John prods, knowing that he’s walking thin ice with his little game.

“Gotham will be freed. The sickness it spreads, its corruption, will be purged.” Bane says.

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

John pauses, trying to make his stalling appear more like coyness. How to press the issue without _appearing_ to press the issue? 

“.....like Milton’s Satan,” Bane continues, “I too strive to bring equality, to liberate the common people, and I too am vilified.”

In that surreal moment, John realizes something: Bane is not some dumb brute, pure muscle and nothing more. There is a deep, dark intellect behind that mask, and somehow that is more terrifying than the sheer physicality of him.

Bane ruts his hips forward against him and then John’s stomach drops. He’s hard. John remembers why the shirt thing was a bad idea – he’s having no physical reaction to Bane’s scent at all. No way he’s getting fucked without the pheromones like that other time. No fucking way.

Caged in on all sides by Bane, John has nowhere to go but down.

He sinks to his knees without Bane’s say-so, hoping that this time Bane would find head an acceptable substitute for sex. Bane grows a little, but allows him to draw his cock out. At eye level, it’s looks even bigger than usual. Tentatively, John strokes it a few times and then licks the head. He wonders if Bane knows his heart’s not in it this time, if he even cares. John sucks him down mechanically, keeping a fist wrapped around the base to Bane’s cock to keep him from thrusting in too deep.

John looks up at Bane theatrically as he swipes his tongue down the length of his prick, and Bane quivers.

_Bane likes it when I gag._

John purposefully removes his hand and Bane takes the opportunity to thrust into his mouth, one hand in his hair. To speed this process along, John doesn’t stifle the slurpy, gasping sounds Bane seems to like.  It’d be hard to try to muffle them with Bane’s cock rubbing the back of his throat like that, anyway.

_Come. Come. Come. Come. Let this be over soon._

Bane thrusts a little more frantically and shudders, coming down John’s throat. John vaguely remembers being turned on by the sensation of Bane’s release in his mouth, but without the pheromones the unexpected rush of it splattering down his throat just makes him want to throw up. Bane surges in a few more times, trying to ride out the rest of his climax, and it’s all John can do not to retch. Finally, Bane pulls away, and John coughs wildly. He dabs at his face and knows Bane’s come is dribbling down his chin. Bane pets his hair.

“I will arrange for you to be taken outside,” he says, tucking himself away. Leaving John on kneeling on the floor, he strides towards the chest and unlocks it. Bane shuffles through it and selects a few long rolled up pieces of paper, relocks the chest,and leaves.

John wipes his mouth with the corner of his sleeve and gets up off the floor stiffly. He’s not sure if it’s just his face that feels hot or if this room is somehow getting even more stifling. He knows he wants out, _now_. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long for relief. A few minutes after Bane leaves, some other terrorist pokes his head through the door and motions John forward. “C’mon, then,” he says gruffly, obviously not too pleased about being John's babysitter. John half expected Barsad to be the one to bring him up, but he hadn’t seen him since that weird episode back at the hotel.

_Well, Fuck him. I don’t need his help. I can handle Bane on my own, thank you very much._

The terrorist walks him through a maze of dark corridors. John tries to remember the layout but it's too dark and it all looks the same and can he help it if his mind is a little distracted? Eventually, his escort leads him to a hole in the wall that had obviously been blasted through with explosives, opening onto a stairwell. At the best of times, John considers stairs to be an inconvenience (damn shitty fifth floor apartment with constant-in-need-of-maintenance elevator), but right now he’s so glad for the opportunity to move his legs that he scales them three at a time. His escort swears at him and jogs to keep up.

B2,

B1,

M.

John pushes through the double doors on the main floor and enters what looks like an old abandoned warehouse. It’s teeming with activity – terrorists unloading crates, milling about, practice fighting. This must be in the old part of Gotham, next to the docks. Yeah, this kind of brick is pretty much used only in those old warehouses by the docks. Johns heart sinks – the terrorist forces don’t look nearly as incapacitated as he had hoped.

“This way,” the guard says, pushing him forward a little too roughly towards a side door. Guess he didn’t like having to put up a chase.

It opens onto a courtyard, closed in on all sides by a impossibly high wall, made of that same reddish brick.  It’s cold and rainy and dreary outside and John is _exhilarated_. Fuck, this feels great. Why did he ever complain about Gotham weather? He stands under the overcast sky, relishing the feeling of the rain splattering across his face. John has to hold back the urge to fucking _twirl._ Out here, he feels like he finally has room to think about what Bane's said.

_Gotham will be freed. The sickness it spreads, its corruption, will be purged._

That doesn’t sound good. Yes, Gotham can be a little seedy sometimes. Yes, it can be an absolute shit-hole place to live. But it’s full of good honest people too, people who care about honor and justice and basic human decency. Whatever happens, they don’t deserve to be dragged into this – whatever this is.

His guard leans against the wall and lights a cigarette. The craving hits John hard.

“Hey, can I bum a smoke?”

The terrorist looks up at him. “My last one,” he lies, tucking the pack back in his pocket.

John rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll smash your face in,” John says for the hell of it.

The escort smirks. He takes out his pack, and with a great flourish, throws them into the puddle at John’s feet. “Raduk was a pussy.”

John clenches his fists. _Douchebag._

Not int the mood to risk a fight and a possible slap in the face from Bane, John backs off. It's not worth it, not when he has this beautiful weather to enjoy. He looks up to the sky and runs his hands through his wet hair. It’s not a hot shower, but damn, it’s refreshing.

_I too strive to bring equality, to liberate the common people, and I too am vilified._

Humph. Some liberator. John’s never been so _liberated_ in his life, thank you very much. What a load of bullshit. Bane must be delusional, except for the part where he compared himself to Satan. That seems to fit him just right. 

But then, Bane didn’t seem keen to let him come up here at all, at first. He changed his mind, _he bought the act_. Maybe John might have to give that another try in the future.

John jogs back and forth, trying to clear his head and vent some of his frustration and pent-up energy.

 “That’s enough. Let’s go.” The guard calls out to him a few minutes later, probably bored of watching John run circles around the courtyard.

“I’m not ready.” John says casually, walking the length of the courtyard and running his fingertips over the brick wall. He’s soaking wet now, but can’t bring himself to care. Going back down into Bane's dark burrow was not something he was looking forward to.

 “I said _let’s go, now_.” The terrorist yells, striding towards him purposefully. He looked pissed at having to relinquish his sheltered position under the door's overhang to chase after John in the rain. John runs to the opposite end of the courtyard, ducking out of the way. He hears the man curse.

_Should've given me that cigarette, fucker._

He finally allows the guard to catch him when the chill begins to creep into his bones and he starts to feel cold. The exasperated look on his face makes John grin in satisfaction. He tugs John by his upper arm, but otherwise does not punish John for his defiance.

_He's probably been told he can't beat me._

When John’s led back inside the warehouse, he can’t help but notice that he’s the center of attention. Bane’s men leer at him wolfishly, and a few even call out to him in another language and snigger. John ducks his head, exuberance gone.  Nothing makes you quite as uncomfortable as being ogled by a whole gang of  grimy-looking terrorists.

When John looks down, he notices what they must be commenting on. His wet shirt clings to his body, drawing attention to the flesh underneath and pert nipples. _Great. Now I’m a one man wet t-shirt contest._ John blushes furiously, burning hot even though he’s still sopping wet.

“Not so lippy now, are you?” His escort says from behind him.

Someone barks something in a Slavic-sounding language and all the men immediately dissipate, going back to their business in silence. When John hazards a look, he’s somehow not surprised to see Barsad watching him blankly from across the warehouse. Their eyes don’t meet for long; his escort tugs at his arm and John doesn’t resist.

\---

He decides to put his little act to the test one night when he’s lying in Bane’s arms. His mind is just starting to clear, and John’s worked up the nerve to give it a shot:

“I’d really like a smoke or two, when I'm allowed back outside,” He says softly in that special voice of his. Best to start small and see how it plays out. “Would help calm my nerves.”

Bane grunts and doesn’t reply. John thinks that must mean a no.

_So much for that._

The next time he’s taken outside, however, his escort begrudgingly offers John a cigarette without a single word. He did not look happy about it.

John accepts, grinning like a madman.

\---

\---

\---

That dream.

That _dream._

Every night it gets more vivid, more _real_ , revealing details that he’d long since repressed.

Twenty years. Twenty years since that night in the yellow room, and thought that her face was wiped clean from his memory - but no. He saw it, clear and crisp, that face he’d tried so hard to forget.

Except.....it was John at first, sobbing and broken on the floor. The transition was so seamless – one of those things that only seems strange in hindsight. Barsad’s dream-self didn’t question it at all.

_They have the same eyes._


	9. Chapter 9

 

_For if everything is considered carefully, it will be found that something which looks like virtue, if followed, would be his ruin; whilst something else, which looks like vice, yet followed brings him security and prosperity._

Another underlined passage.  Bane’s books are full of them, like little clues that point enticingly to who the man beneath the mask. John has long since swallowed his long-held hatred of poetry to meticulously go through Bane’s books, looking for anything that might help him solve Bane like a literary puzzle. It’s now been approximately two weeks since he’s talked to Barsad up on the roof of the El Prado (not that he’s keeping track) but without any real way to keep track of time John’s not sure how long he’s been down here. All he knows is that he’s bored out of his skull most of the time and that without this little project he would have nothing better to do but to sit around on his ass and fucking _pine_ for Bane. As much as he hates that brute, he’s his only real company now. It’s hard to admit it, but _any_ company is better than none.

_Fucking psychology._

On the plus side, Bane allows him up to the courtyard almost whenever John likes, provided John has an escort. Once, Bane even let John sleep in one of the warehouse offices on the third floor, just so John could spend a few hours outside the fucking catacomb that Bane calls a room. John had kept the window wide open all night even though it was so cold the rain had turned into icy slurry. He’s starting to get good at reading Bane’s moods: when he’s angry, when he’s calm, when he’s horny. Most importantly, John discovers that Bane likes it when John’s affectionate. For being a brutal murdering terrorist, Bane’s really quite the sucker for it. It gets easier to fake as time rolls on: Bane is gentler when John pours on the syrup, and when Bane’s gentle, somehow being held after sex is not so revolting.  In a haze of post-orgasmic bliss, Bane will sometimes comment on whatever book John’s trudging though and maybe answer a question or two if he’s feeling particularly talkative - not that John ever gleans anything useful from what he says.

While having a clear head is necessary for honing his Bane-management skills, John hates to admit that he kind of misses having a reliable pheromone reaction. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s habituating to them much more readily now, if it’s because Bane’s room is small and cramped and there’s not much air circulation, or a combination of both, but John can’t depend on a decent reaction unless Bane’s gone for a few days. It’s a good thing he’s a half-decent actor.

And yeah, he should be wishing that Bane would get rid of him, but he senses that he’s _so close_ to figuring out what the terrorists are up to that to; giving up now would almost feel like a huge disappointment.

As if his life weren’t shitty enough, most of the passages in Bane’s books make no sense out of context so he has to actually _read_ the fucking things and try to understand them. Damn, this Machiavelli guy is just John’s type – so brutally realistic. John remembers a supervisor he had down at the station that acted exactly like _the Prince._

It’s getting harder and harder to concentrate with the noise that’s echoing down the sewers. It feels like the walls are vibrating slightly with it, pulsing to some far-off rhythm. It's been building for hours now, and John doesn't know what to make of it.

The door of Bane’s room creaks open and one of John’s latest escorts walks in.

 “You come,” he says in broken English. John looks up at him in mock-exasperation.

“Could you tell them to keep it down? I’m trying to read here,” John says sarcastically, knowing the guard wouldn’t understand him anyway.

The man advances towards him. “Come now,” he repeats, like those are the only English words he understands. Just to be a dick, John collapses back on the cot, using non-violent resistance in a way that used to drive him batshit crazy whenever criminals did it to him.

The terrorist grunts as he tries to haul John off the cot, but John just slides off and lands on the floor.

“You didn’t say please,” John says impishly, looking up at him through his eyelashes. He has to make his fun _somehow_ down here.

The terrorist curses, obviously resisting the urge to beat John to a bloody pulp. He knows he can’t, and John knows he can’t. It’s only when he scoops John up bridal style that John springs to life.

“Okay, okay, I’ll walk,” he relents, wriggling furiously. The terrorist sets John on his feet, but grips him by the back of his shirt collar and shakes him a few times in a warning that bridges their linguistic barrier: _No more of that shit._

The terrorist walks him towards the stairwell and John quizzes himself before he takes a each turn. _Second left, third right......._ He’s sure he could get out of here on his own if he had to – that is, if he could work up the balls to try to escape. The noise gets louder and louder, resonating down the stairwell.  John’s curiosity is getting the better of him, and he allows himself to be led up the stairs without much fuss. When John finally pushes open the door to the warehouse proper, he feels like the wind is knocked out of him.

There are hundreds, no _thousands_ , of Bane’s mercenaries, swarms of them, enjoying what some kind of crazy terrorist party. A huge bonfire is roaring in the center of the room, roasting what appears to be a whole cow on a spit.  Angry-sounding Eastern-European rock is blaring through a haphazardly-assembled sound system in one corner. Most of the men are swaggering about drunkenly and singing off key, clapping and stomping their feet like a bunch of rowdy frat boys. Even though they’ve shot out all the warehouse’s windows and the bay doors are wide open to the cool autumn air, it's still stiflingly hot and muggy.

 No wonder John couldn’t get any bloody reading done.

 He imagines coming here as Officer John Blake and issuing them a noise complaint.

John’s escort steers him by a fistful of his shirt towards a dais they’ve set up at one end of the warehouse. Bane’s sitting on an old armchair, watching over the festivities like a king in a deranged court, calm amidst a sea of chaos. Talia’s sitting next to him, leaning in close to his ear to talk to him privately. There are ratty couches on either side of Bane and Talia for the other senior terrorists, who occupy themselves with cigars and the scantily clad serving girls. Barsad sits among them, sober and controlled as ever. A blonde woman with an open blouse and too-short skirt is draping herself over him, but from Barsad’s body language John can tell he’s humoring her at best and barely enduring her at worst. Barsad locks his eyes onto John’s for a moment, then pries himself away from the woman and leaves. She follows him out, stumbling on her stripper heels.

John’s pushed up onto the dais and Bane breaks away from his conversation with Talia to beckon John forward. John swallows nervously at the way Talia’s glaring at him but decides there’s not much she can do to him while he’s in Bane’s good graces.

 “John,” Bane rumbles, eyes crinkling slightly at the ends, “Come, boy. Sit.” He motions to the floor at his feet and John stifles a wince of distaste.

_I’m not your bitch, Bane._

Except he is, because he moves to comply. He lowers himself down slowly, unsure of what Bane could possibly want with him now. At least he doesn’t seem to be reacting to Bane right now - Bane had fucked him just a few hours before. John’s embarrassed about having to sit at Bane's feet like a dog, but most of the men seem too engaged in drinking and dancing to be making fun of him.

“What do you think of the celebration, John?” Bane says, looking down at him.

John peers out at the swarms of men. Now that he can see above the row of heads, he can tell that there are definitely thousands of them. Even more are outside the warehouse bay doors. John had no idea Bane commanded that kind of man power and it made his heart sink.

“It’s impressive,” he says, at loss for a better word. “What’s the occasion?”

“Our work here in Gotham is nearly complete.”

John’s brow furrows. What does that mean? That they’ll be leaving soon?

From nowhere, John’s handed a plate of food: kabobs, a baked potato, and what looked like some sort of cabbage roll. John wants to refuse it, but this is by far the best thing they’ve served him since he got here, and fuck it all but he’s hungry. He wonders what kind of meat that is. _What the hell._ John rips into the kabob with his teeth and chews thoughtfully. It’s beef, thank god. Savory and flavorful, not too overdone. Bane watches him with interest.

“Good, John?”

John wipes his face with his sleeve. He was never one for manners anyways. “Yeah. Good.” He says.

“Drink,” Bane says, handing John a shot glass of a sharp-smelling golden liquid.

John hesitates. “No thanks,” he says. As much fun as getting totally wasted at a terrorist party would be, John decides that it would probably be in his best interest to keep a clear head tonight.

 Bane holds out the shot glass more insistantly. “You will not refuse what I give you.”

“I’ll bet he doesn’t,” Talia remarks bitingly. John grits his teeth.

He takes the shot from Bane and tips his head back, letting the burning liquid flow down his throat. It sears, and he coughs. Bane ruffles his hair, that patronizing bastard, then turns back towards Talia.

John pokes around at his food, really wishing he had a fork. The cabbage rolls are soggy, but otherwise it’s not bad.

A new song comes on the sound system and all the men cheer and stomp their feet.  It’s all so fucking _loud_ and chaotic that John wonders how Bane can keep them under control at all. If only Gordon would bomb this place and kill all the men in one go. John would gladly die if it meant taking all these fuckers down with him.

A circle forms in the crowd and two men begin wrestling. They fight brutally, throwing punches at each other until their faces and knuckles are red with blood. To the delight of the spectators, one gets the upper hand and throws his opponent  to the floor. The defeated man signals defeat, and he’s helped to his feet by the victor. They embrace in a surprising act of good sportsmanship, and do shots through each other’s linked arms.

John watches the men with avid curiosity as Bane toys with his hair. Yes, they’re wild, but when Bane rises suddenly and lifts his hand, they all immediately quiet and turn towards the dais.

Bane begins to speak in a Slavic language, his voice cutting through the anarchy like a machete. He begins smoothly, but then his cadence rises into a crescendo and he raises his fist, earning a round of thunderous cheers from the men. His timed pauses, his inflection, the smooth pronunciation – Bane’s actually an amazing orator. His audience is utterly transfixed. No wonder they all fight and die for him.

_Cult of personality._

Another of Bane’s men steps forward, holding open a wooden box. Bane reaches in and pulls out an intricately carved knife and raises it to show the throngs of men. Wordlessly, the crowd begins to clear a space in front of the dais as four men drag a huge wooden plank with a bull’s eye forwards. They position it perpendicular to the dais, so that John has a pretty clear view from where he’s sitting.

Bane says something else, and a few men step forward from among the throngs of men and position themselves opposite the target. It’s surprisingly quiet given the ruckus these men had been making for most of the evening.

The first man gets into position.  He takes a knife and holds it above his shoulder, concentrating intently on the target. After a few moments of moving it forwards and back, he finally makes the throw. The knife lands inside the second circle, and the audience claps appreciatively.

The next man takes a similar stance, gauges the distance and throws. It lands on the rim of the third circle. He curses and moves back into the crowd.

It goes on like this, one man at a time, until one finally hit’s a bull’s eye. The crowd applauds and the other competitors back off, knowing they’ve been beaten. The winner steps towards the dais and Bane hands him the ornate knife and claps him on the shoulder. The spectators cheer and the winner tries to hide his pride.

“I don’t know why we’re bothering to have a contest when we all know who the best is,” Talia shouts in English over the commotion. The men instantly quiet again. “Where’s Barsad?” She calls.

The men murmur.

“Barsad......” Talia calls again in a sing-song voice.

Somebody shouts from the other end of the warehouse and everyone turns around. They part for Barsad like the Red Sea as he moves towards the clearing in front of the dais. He stares unflinchingly back at Talia, waiting for her next move. John can already tell she’s going somewhere with this.

“We owe our victory in Liberia to Barsad’s skill; were it not for him, General Nbutu would still be alive. They say you hit one of his cronies in the back of the head from 100 yards with a throwing knife. Is that not true, brother?”

Barsad doesn’t even have to answer because the men roar on his behalf.

“And in Colombia - one knife in either hand, two targets, a simultaneous kill?”

The men stomp their feet.  Barsad keeps his face neutral.

“Why not a little demonstration of skill?” Talia goes on, “Show us what a true warrior of the League of Shadows looks like?”

 _League of Shadows?_ It’s the first time John’s heard them refer to themselves as some kind of organization. _So they have a name._  Unfortunately, It’s not one John recognizes.

The crowd’s cheers are deafening, but Barsad seemed impervious to anything around him. He keeps his steely eyes on Talia.

“But we need a volunteer,” Talia goes on. “A lovely assistant.” She turns around suddenly and reaches towards John, who had been greatly enjoying his relative anonymity up to that point, thank you very much. He suddenly feels the weight of thousands of eyes on him and his stomach drops.

“John,” she says softly, only to him. “Come on, darling.”

Bane growls and rests a protective hand on John’s shoulder. “No, Talia.”

Talia keeps her eyes on John's. “No need to worry, pet, Barsad is a man of unmatched skill. Come, we’re waiting for you –“

Bane squeezes John’s shoulder. “I said no, Talia.”

Talia turns towards Bane. “The men are talking,” she says with quiet menace, just loud enough so only Bane and John could hear, “They say you are getting too merciful. That your whore is making you weak. That you lie with him like a lover. Are they right, my love? Are you weak?”

It’s so, so, quiet. John’s heart thumps.

Finally, Bane grunts and releases John’s shoulder in begrudging acquiescence. Talia pulls John up by the bicep and pushes him off the platform towards Barsad. John stumbles, but luckily gains his footing before he could fall and make a total fool of himself. The men are murmuring, but John can’t hear them over the blood rushing in his ears.

Barsad advances towards him with steely determination. With one hand at his shoulder, he guides John towards the bull’s eye and turns him so that his back is pressed against the wood. John’s eyes widen in fear as he finally understands just what Talia had in mind for her little game of skill.

_You’ve got to be shitting me._

“No. No, Barsad. Please.” John whispers, trying to keep his shit together while everyone is watching him.

Barsad positions him at exactly the centre of the wooden plank, opening John’s stance with his boot. He’s so close John can feel the heat of him; he’s so calm that John wants to punch him in the face.

“ _Do not move, John_ ,” Barsad enunciates, his eyes burning so fiercely that it makes John’s knees weak. “Close your eyes and _don’t move_.”

As he positions John, Barsad squeezes his arms, just like he had when John had been sent to Bane the second time. _Reassuringly_. It was so subtle that John’s sure nobody else noticed.  He suddenly feels like he’d been silly to believe Barsad had abandoned him. All the anger John had been harboring against these last two weeks him melts away instantaneously.

“I trust you,” John blurts out before he can really stop himself. Barsad’s eyes soften at the corners and he purses his lips. For an instant it feels like they are the only two people in the whole world, frozen in time. Then Barsad nods and walks towards the other end of the clearing, silencing the men with a raised arm. When Barsad turns around to face John again his face is brutally hard and his jaw is clenched.

This all feels like a crazy nightmare that John wishes he could snap out of. Barsad’s hands are grazing over a selection of throwing knives on a nearby table. He picks up one and weighs it thoughtfully in his hand. He sets it down and picks up another, tossing it in the air and catching it by the handle with astonishing ease. He’s so, so calm, while John wishes he hadn’t eaten because he’s sure he’s going to throw up. Or pass out. Or shit his guts out.

When Barsad finally stands to face towards John again, he’s got a knife in his hand.

_Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod......._

 “Five points, on my count,” Talia says, her voice laced with triumph. “Are you ready?”

John squeezes his eyes shut tightly in an attempt to make everything disappear.

“Left hip. Three........two..........”

_No no no no no nononononono oh god......._

“One!”

_FUCK!_

**Thunk**

John peeks one eye open and looks down. The knife is stuck in the wood mere inches to his right. He felt the air as it passed, _Jesus motherfucking Christ._ He doesn’t have much time to be relieved, because Talia’s counting down again. John winces so hard his face hurts.

“Right elbow. Three.....two......one......”

_SHITSHITSHIT_

**Thunk**

No pain registers and John lets out a breath. He has never been so thankful that Barsad’s good at this kind of thing.

“Groin,” Talia says, sounding more irritated than she did before. _Bitch._ John fights the urge to close his legs, knowing that would only make his situation worse. “Three.....two.....one...”

John doesn’t even have time to close his eyes this time. It’s so quick. Barsad’s in position, holding the knife by its point above his shoulder. His eyes are focused onto John with such ferocity.....

**Thunk**

Right between the legs. Yep, John could certainly throw up right about now.

“Left shoulder,” Talia says quickly. Her countdown is suddenly much faster, “Three, two, one...”

John holds his breath, and clenches his fist.

**Thunk**

Nothing. No rush of pain, no severed limbs. He's doing it.....he's actually doing it! He might make it out in one piece after all.....

 “Head. Three, two one...”

Head?

_NO! Wait!_

_Oh FUCK!_

_WHOOOOOOOOOSH_

John feels it, _Christ_ , he feels it. He’s dead. He must be dead. Oh god, he’s going to die a prisoner, in front of everyone and how embarrassing is that? He’s so sorry for all the dumb shit he’s done in his life. He’s sorry for not sponsoring a child in the third world. He’s sorry for not helping his elderly neighbor with her groceries that time he was running late. He’s sorry he stole cigarettes from the corner store when he was sixteen and blamed his foster brother, he’s sor........

**THUNK**

 He feels the vibration through the wood, _right above his head._  He didn’t even want to know how close Barsad hit.  He would probably piss himself. He straightens himself out a little and can feel the blade’s edge just barely scraping the top of his scalp. _Holy shit sweet Mary fucking mother of god....._

It’s quiet for a few moments, and then the room erupts into thunderous noise, louder than before. The floors shake, the lights rattle. The men howl and stomp their feet until John’s sure this whole rickety building will collapse. It’s so deafening that John almost forgets what just happened. John opens his eyes and Barsad’s still looking at him, impervious to the riot of noise around him. He nods at John twice from where he’s standing. John’s so relieved he would suck Barsad’s cock right here out of sheer gratitude.

Still dazed, John’s hauled back up onto the dais. Bane grabs his wrist and raises it above John’s head, and the crowd cheers anew.  A few even fire shots into the air.

It must be either the adrenaline or the sheer relief of not getting castrated and/or killed just now, but John’s face breaks out into a wild grin. These men who had taunted him ever since he was brought here were now cheering for him with wild abandon, like he was some sort of a-list celebrity. It’s exhilarating and overwhelming and _rapturous_ and so much better than he ever could have imagined. Ever since he was a kid, he’s fantasized about doing some great heroic deed and being awarded a medal of honor by the mayor to thunderous applause. That he would make the papers, Gotham’s hero. That he would finally _be somebody._ And sure, this isn’t exactly how he had pictured it, but for some crazy reason, it gets to him all the same. He’s never felt so alive.

He laughs. He fucking laughs, and Bane’s eyes crinkle at him.

“You are brave, my little bird,” Bane says fondly. John’s handed another shot of liquor and he does it without hesitation.

Someone puts the music back on and the men turn back to their food and drink, spreading out into the cleared space. Barsad is nowhere to be seen.

“Well done, John,” Talia says expressionlessly, her smile not reaching her eyes.

“Few men would have endured that with half as much courage as you,” Bane continues, cupping his cheek affectionately. John’s cheeks flush in pleasure at Bane’s praise.

“I’m just going to get some air, yeah?” John says, and Bane nods. John expects an escort, as usual, but when Bane doesn’t send for one, John shrugs and makes his way towards the side door. He doesn’t look up at anyone on his way out, but he knows the men are seeing him in a different light now.

It’s wonderfully cool outside. John’s ears ring, his head throbs and his heart pounds, but he’s so high on endorphins he feels almost invincible.

_I can’t believe that just happened._

It takes a few moments before he notices he’s not alone.

“I thought you said you didn’t smoke,” John says, still somewhat breathless with exuberance.

Barsad takes a drag. “I decided to start.”

John smirks. “Just now?”

Barsad scrubs a hand over his face and doesn’t reply. He looks a lot less put together than he did mere minutes ago – more _unhinged._ His angular features look somehow softer in the moonlight.

John  walks towards him and reaches into Barsad’s pocket where he knows he keeps his cigarettes. He takes one out, lights it with Barsad's lighter, and takes a drag. “That’s some party trick, I almost shit myself with excitement,” John says sarcastically, breathing out the smoke and tilting his head back. Barsad doesn’t reply, so John prattles on uncomfortably, not wanting it to seem like he was belittling Barsad's skill. “It _was_ pretty impressive though. I mean, I knew you’d be good, but I didn’t think you’d be, I dunno, circus freak side show good. Do you ever miss?”  
  
Barsad shuffles his feet. “More than you’d want to know,” he says, deadpan, and looks away.

_What a killjoy._

John smiles nervously, unable to read Barsad’s tone. “Yeah, best not to tell me then.” He tries to meet Barsad’s gaze but the other man seems intent on avoiding him altogether.

Barsad takes one last deep drag, throws his cigarette to the ground and grinds it out with his boot. Without another word he turns towards the door.

“Wait, wait” John says, grabbing his wrist as Barsad tries to walk by. “Where you going? I just wanted to talk, to thank you......”

Barsad doesn’t struggle in John’s grip. “Let me pass, Blake,” he says flatly.

John might be grateful as fuck for Barsad’s throwing-knife skills, but that doesn’t stop the anger he’s been feeling for the last few weeks from bubbling up all over again. “Oh no.  Not yet. Not till you tell me what happened with us. I’ve barely seen you around in weeks, you asshole. I mean, I know we’re not _friends_ or anything, but you could’ve at least told me what the fuck was going on that night at the hotel. I mean, handcuffs. Really, Barsad? _Handcuffs?_ What was I supposed to think, that you....”

He’s interrupted as Barsad presses him back against the wall and kisses him. This isn’t at all like John’s botched seduction attempt, when Barsad had been so frozen and unresponsive that John cringes every time he thinks about it. No. Now, he kisses like he needs it, like he’s dying for it. He’s rough and desperate and full of implacable _want_ that it makes John gasp in surprise.  Once John opens his mouth Barsad sinks in further, deepening the kiss by pulling John towards him by the back of the neck. His tongue slips past John’s lips, warm and needy, and John moans. John’s not sure why he’s reciprocating; It might be the alcohol, it might be the adrenaline, it might be because he’s so fucking lonely most of the time with only Bane for company.

Mainly it might be because he doesn’t actually hate Barsad at all.

Barsad pulls away abruptly, eyes wide.  He takes a huge step back as if in shock.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, uncharacteristically flustered. “Sorry, I’m...”

“It’s okay,” John whispers, still pretty stunned and not knowing what else to say. ‘S’fine, really – “

“No. No it’s not,” Barsad says firmly, shaking his head. “If someone were to see us....” His voice trails off for a moment before he collects himself again. John’s never seen him look so unwound. “You have to stay away from me, John.”

“Stay away from you?” John repeats slowly.

Barsad opens the side door and pauses. “I’m sorry.”  he says again, then closes the door behind him before John could say anything else.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote one of the scenes specifically for you, [whalebarf](../../../../users/whalebarf/pseuds/whalebarf)! You'll know which one :)

Barsad feels like he’s harboring a hurricane in his chest, and knows it’s written across his face.

_I kissed him._

_I fucking kissed him._

_What was I thinking?_

He wasn’t thinking, that’s the problem. It was the most reckless, stupid thing he could have possibly done. Someone could have easily seen them, reported them back to Bane – they’d both be killed. How could he have lost control like that?

Executing a Five Point had completely drained him of his mental resources. He knew he had to maintain a showman-like confidence so that John wouldn’t panic or flinch - confidence he didn’t truly feel. Worse, when John said he trusted him, he was so painfully sincere that Barsad almost stopped breathing.

_How could he? I was the one who brought him here, to Bane, who readied him....._

He had hit _much_ too close with that last throw. Talia was counting down too quickly; he barely had time to calibrate....

_Fuck._

Barsad splashes water on his face until the wild look in his eyes melts back into apathy. He's been doing this so often lately that it almost feels ritualized.

_Right._

As much as he’s like to avoid the rest of the party, he knows his absence might be considered somewhat peculiar and the last thing he wants to do is raise eyebrows.

Barsad sighs and reenters the warehouse, acknowledging the rounds of drunken cheering with a calm nod as he makes his way back towards the dais.

Bane motions him forward to where he and Talia are sitting. John’s already returned, perched on Bane’s lap with his back to Bane’s chest. He doesn’t look especially pleased with his seating arrangements, but he’s hiding it well.  Bane’s embrace is the safest place he could possibly be, and Barsad could have ruined it for them both.

_Fuck. How could I have been so stupid?_

Barsad wills John not to stare at him too intently. Talia has eyes _everywhere,_ and she’s always watching.

 “Brother,” Bane says, his voice low and warm, “You are lethal as ever. I am sorry I ever doubted your proficiency with a blade.” One arm is wrapped possessively around John’s narrow waist, as if Bane’s reluctant to let John go again.

“You do me too much honor,” Barsad mumbles.

_I still taste him on my lips._

 “You are too modest. If anything I do you too little honor. How could I lead without you at my side, old friend?”

He’s handed a drink.

“A toast,” Talia smiles, lifting her glass, “To the most skilled, most fearsome, _most loyal_ warrior the League of Shadows has ever known,”  Her voice is deceptively bright, masking the displeasure he knows she’s feeling. To his relief, nobody else seems to have noticed. They all raise their glasses to his name and drink. Barsad downs the vodka in one smooth gulp.

 “.......and how long has it been, exactly, since you’ve done a Five Point?” Talia inquires in thinly-veiled mock curiosity. She knows damn well how long it’s been.

Barsad shrugs.

“Years, hasn’t it? Hmm. I suppose it’s just like riding a bike.”

John visibly tenses in Bane’s lap.

“You know, John,” Talia leans towards Bane’s armchair, “The Five Point was a traditional method of execution for those who had dishonored themselves in the eyes of their brothers –in-arms,” Talia says leisurely. “If the guilty party withstood the first four with courage, then the last shot would be a miss and he would be pardoned. If he was a coward, than the last shot.....well. You understand.” She gestures with her hand flippantly. “Unfortunately, oftentimes the executioner was not as good a marksman as our dear friend Barsad.”

Bane squeezes John from behind. “But now it is considered the ultimate test of bravery, my little bird, and you have passed. You have proven yourself in the eyes of my men.”

 Talia’s features darken – she must have truly thought that either Barsad would miss or that John would beg for mercy like a sniveling little bitch. Her nostrils flare as Bane presses John back against his chest.

 “Name your reward, brother, anything, and I shall grant it.” Bane says affectionately.

_Anything. I doubt that._

“My only wish is to serve with you, to fight and die by your side, _”_ Barsad says. Up until a few weeks ago, that had been true.

“Come now, that’s a boring answer,” Talia says dismissively. “There must be _something_ your heart desires.”  She leans ever so slightly towards John, but keeps her eyes fixed on Barsad.

_How much does she know?_

“Some pleasurable company, then. The blonde girl.” Barsad says, nodding towards Lexi but not backing down from Talia’s gaze. His answer has the desired effect; the briefest flash of confusion crosses her dark features.

“Consider it done,” Bane says, motioning Lexi forwards. She rises slowly from her seat on the couch and slinks over to Barsad, rolling her hips and smiling.

“Well, my dear, kindly show Barsad a good time,” Talia says. Barsad can almost see the gears in her head turning furiously. “He looks like he needs some _relief.”_

Lexi drapes herself on Barsad’s arm. “I can do that,” she croons, licking her glossy lips in a way that Barsad supposes is meant to be seductive but just ends up looking contrived.

Barsad nods in a deference to Bane and Talia, and takes his position back on the sofa. He just barely glances at John, who looked so.....bewildered.

_Damn it John. Do you have to be so obvious?_

John’s attention eventually turns back to Bane and Barsad’s attention turns towards the vodka. He motions for another glassful and takes a swig. It tastes familiar.

_Stolichnaya. Just like home._

Lexi’s rubbing her leg against Barsad’s provocatively.  

“So where’d you learn to throw knives like that? It was _so_ sexy.” She breathes into his ear.

Barsad eyes keep flickering to John, to the way Bane’s thumb has just barely dipped underneath John’s shirt to caress at the soft skin of his stomach.

Barsad takes another shot of vodka.

He remembers that time he had John under his fingers – that one and only time he was actually allowed to _touch_ John. He had been dosed with the pheromones from Bane’s shirt then; Barsad wonders if he could have made John come without them.

_Just from me._

In moments of weakness when he was alone in his bed, he’d indulge in the thought. He could easily mentally insert himself into Bane’s place, fucking John senseless, but that just felt....wrong. The truth is, Barsad doesn’t want John the way he was with Bane – stripped of his faculties, frenzied by pheromones, objectified and debased. A husk of his former self. Instead, he imagines kissing him the way Bane can’t, every inch of his beautiful body, until John falls apart under Barsad’s lips and tongue.

Barsad wants him sharp and sarcastic and vulnerable and strong.

Barsad wants him when he’s got his fists up for a fight, when his face is blotchy with tears, when he’s flashing his dimples in a shy smile.

Barsad wants John to kiss him because he wants to, not because he’s high on pheromones or because he’s looking for a favor. A kiss for the sake of a kiss. Freely given and freely returned.

_Like the way he kissed me tonight._

_God._

If John knew the things Barsad has done, he wouldn’t have kissed him back.

 “Are you even listening to me?” Lexi whines, snapping him back to reality. She doesn’t seem to like being ignored.

Bane’s other hand is skating up John’s thigh and Barsad downs the rest of his drink. “Let’s go,” he says, tugging her up.

In her sky-high heels, Lexi’s having a hard time keeping up with Barsad’s pace and it’s already getting on his nerves. He guides her towards his private room and closes the door behind him. 

“And here I thought you didn’t like me,” she says seductively, pressing her chest against Barsad’s and cupping his cock with one manicured hand. “I’m glad I could get you to.... _come_ around...”

 Everything about her is fake: her hair, her eyelashes, her tan, her tits. She’s repulsive, but Barsad resists the urge to pry her off. He has to follow through with this.

“I wouldn’t assume,” he says tonelessly. “Hands and knees.” He nods towards the bed.

“Straight down to business? We have all the time in the world. I could make you feel real good, baby,” she rubs him through his pants and Barsad’s cock stirs of its own accord. She notices and smirks. “You like that, baby?” She tries to lean in to kiss him, but Barsad recoils, as if she’d desecrate the memory of John’s lips against his.

 “Don’t call me that. Hands and knees,” he repeats firmly. Annoyance flashes across her painted face, but she moves to comply, crawling up the bed and wiggling her ass provocatively.

“Mmmmm yeah, you gonna give it to me? Gonna fuck me with your hard cock?” She’s speaking in that whiny, contrived little-girl voice porn stars use, and Barsad grits his teeth. “Yeah, fuck me, ooooh, you make me so wet...”

 “Be quiet,” he snaps, getting into position behind her. She huffs, annoyed, but obeys. Barsad fumbles with his pants to free his cock and strokes it a few times for good measure. Then he reaches down to peel off her panties, not bothering to undress any further. The less he has to touch her, the better.

When he thrusts insider her, she makes a surprised gasp, then moans as though she was already coming. It’s so fucking fake, Barsad hates her all the more.

He tries not to remember how John had moaned during their kiss – so raw and honest that just the thought of it makes his heart race.

“I said, be quiet,” he snaps, gripping her hips a little too harshly to emphasize his point. Lexi huffs again, dropping her act completely.

“Whatever, Romeo. Just get it over with then.”

Barsad snaps his hips and fucks her roughly. He keeps his eyes fixed on the back of her blonde head because if he closed his eyes, he’s afraid he’ll picture long brown chestnut hair instead.  He can hardly go through with this as it is.

Barsad comes a few moments later. The pleasure is hollow and meaningless.

He pulls out and tucks himself away. Lexi lies back on the bed and rolls over.

“Oh baby, oh baby,” she says sarcastically.

 “Get out,” Barsad says.

“That’s it then?  You don’t even want to try for anal?“

“ _Out_ ,” Barsad growls, pointing to the door. It works: this time he’s startled her. She runs past him and slams the door on her way out.

Finally alone, Barsad sighs heavily and collapses on his bed.

\---

John lies in Bane’s bed but can’t sleep. He had excused himself from the party and was relieved when Bane let him go. Sitting at Bane’s feet had been bad, but sitting on his lap was infinitely worse.

If Barsad liked him, he sure had a funny way of showing it.

First he kisses him, then he goes to fuck some bimbo?

 _Stay away from me, John,_ Barsad had said.

_Because he doesn’t trust me?_

_No._

_It’s because.....because he can’t trust himself around me....._

The realization hits John like a leaden weight, so obvious that he kicks himself for not figuring it out earlier. Some detective he is.

_Barsad can’t get close to me because of Bane._

He hears the door open and cracks an eye. Bane closes the door softly and strips his shirt off. John gulps nervously and all thoughts of Barsad dissipate from his mind.

“Did I wake you?” Bane says, to John’s surprise.

“Uh, no. Hard to sleep after all that....excitement.”

Bane grunts in assent, walking over to the cot and sitting himself down. He slides one massive hand up under John’s t-shirt, fanning his fingers across his taut belly and thumbing the skin thoughtfully. In such close quarters, John feels a small pheromone reaction beginning to take effect. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make him sigh and relax into Bane’s touch.

“Take it off,” Bane says, and John tries not to look too uneasy. He lifts himself up just enough so that Bane could slide his shirt up over his head. He lies back again, waiting for Bane’s next move.

Bane’s just.....staring at him, moving his paw of a hand over John’s chest. It feels warm and heavy. Not unpleasant.

“You please me, ” he says. John takes a second to let that actually sink into his skull.

_What does one say to that?_

_Thanks? I’m glad?_

John opts for a shy smile and hopes that means whatever Bane wants it to mean.

Bane slides himself down onto his back next to John and tucks his arm under John’s head. It’s awkward at first, waiting for Bane to order him to go down on him or something, but as the minutes tick by, the likelihood of sex lessens. John lets himself relax into Bane’s embrace, and Bane curls his arm around John’s shoulder. It’s like lying next to a shaved grizzly or something.

John rests his hand on Bane’s chest in an imitation of what Bane did to him. He’s so impossibly thick around the middle; so much raw, brutal strength under John's fingertips. As John runs his hands down Bane’s chest, Bane gives off a low pleased rumble. _He likes that._

Encouraged, John props himself up so that he’s resting on one elbow , leaning over Bane. He keeps his other hand on Bane’s stomach, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath. Bane wheezes lightly out of his mask.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for, um, not handing me over to Talia. Back at the hotel,” John begins. “I know she wanted to......punish me. I guess.”

“You’re afraid of her,” Bane says.

John nods slowly.

“Are you afraid of me?”

John swallows, unsure of the right answer. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I’m brave but I’m not _that_ brave,” he gently teases.

Bane’s stills his hand from where it was rubbing circles on his shoulder and John senses he’s made a mistake.

“Your mask is....kinda scary,” John continues timidly, trying to mitigate whatever offense he’s caused. When Bane doesn’t reprimand him, he cautiously brings his fingertips up towards the mask and traces along the claw-like projections. “Do you ever take it off?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Can I see?”

“No, John.” Bane swats his hand away, not ungently.

 “It looks painful,” John says.

“It would be worse without it.”

John pauses, thinking of a way to frame his question to clarify what he thinks Bane means. “So.....it helps you? With pain?” _That would explain the medicinal smell...._

Bane growls a little and John knows he’s definitely pushing too far.

John doesn’t get many chances to look at Bane this closely. He wonders what his face looks like beneath the mask, if he's plain, or handsome, or horribly disfigured.....

“Would you kiss me, Bane, if you could?”

It’s a risky move. The steady rise and fall of Bane's breath stills under his fingertips, but his blue eyes flicker unreadably.

John scoots up the bed and aligns himself more with Bane’s face. He can’t believe he’s about to do this.....

He leans down and presses a chaste kiss to Bane’s mask, right where Bane’s lips should be. The air output from the central grill flutters against his skin and the hard muscles of Bane’s chest tense beneath his hand. Bane doesn't push him away, so John kisses him again. And again.

When he draws his face back, Bane’s eyes are half-lidded and glassy. He’s totally still. John’s just about to apologize when Bane raises his fingers to John’s mouth and rubs the pads along John’s bottom lip. As if....

_As if he’s trying to reciprocate._

 Bane’s fingers graze John’s lips tenderly, seeking entry only when John finally opens his mouth. He presses the salty digits in only up to his first knuckle, so that he’s only barely touching the tip of John’s tongue. Eventually John swallows his nerve and swirls his tongue over the pads of Bane’s fingers, making Bane hum in response. After a few moments John closes his lips around them in a kiss.

It’s not sexual per se; if John had to describe it he’d probably call it _intimate,_ as though Bane is kissing him in the only way he can. He’s not demanding or forceful for once, but allows John to respond at his own pace. It’s.... nice.

Bane pulls his fingers out and strokes John’s cheek softly.

“You please me, John,” he murmurs again. "I won't let anything happen to you."

At first John’s worried that Bane might still want to fuck, but instead Bane eases John’s head onto his shoulder and rumbles softly. John breathes in deeply into the juncture of Bane’s shoulder, where Bane’s scent is musky and sweet, and relaxes. He feels soothed, peaceful. It’s not long before he falls into a dreamless sleep.

\---

One of the unexpected benefits of Barsad’s knife-throwing stunt is that John is now able to leave Bane's room without being harassed.  None of the guards whistle or catcall him anymore. Sure, they stop him if he ventures too far into the sewers or if he gets in their way, but otherwise they treat him like he doesn’t exist. Just this little shred of freedom is enough to make John’s spirits soar; it’s a relief not to have to stay in Bane’s cramped little room and read the goddamn _Bible_ to pass the time.

Yes, Bane has a Bible.

And yes, John had flipped through it out of sheer boredom earlier that morning.

It's somewhat disconcerting how much Bane seems to be interested in the Book of Revelations. He's got notes and scribbles all over:

 _And the kings of the earth, who committed fornication and lived in luxury with her, will weep and wail over her when they see the smoke of her burning; they will stand far off, in fear of her torment, and say,_  
     _“Alas, alas, the great city,_  
          _Babylon, the mighty city!_  
               _For in one hour your judgement has come.”_

That passage was a little _.....too_ close for comfort. John might be a sorry excuse for a Catholic, but he knew enough about the book of Revelations for an ominous sense of foreboding to settle in his stomach.

To occupy his mind, John uses his newfound freedom to map the layout of the sewers. By now, he can easily trace his path up to the stairwell and into the warehouse. He runs up and down the flights of stairs, stopping only when until his legs burn and he's covered in a sheen of sweat.  Bane's men stop him from advancing too far into the warehouse, but he seems to be allowed to stay near the stairwell entrance. Nobody has replaced the windows since the terrorists had shot them out the night of the party, so it’s usually nice and cool in the warehouse proper. So much better than sitting underground all day.

 The wooden target from two nights ago is leaning against a nearby wall, the knives still embedded in the wood. John fingers the blades reverently. Their placement perfectly fits the contour of his body. _Fuck._

He’s not that surprised when nobody pulls a gun on him for daring to pry one of the throwing knives out. After all, how much damage can a knife do against an assault rifle?

Still, he wishes they were at least a _little bit_ wary of him.

He collects all five knives and makes his way to stand opposite the target, roughly two thirds of the distance that Barsad had stood during the demonstration.

_How hard can it be?_

John throws. The knife clunks against the wood and falls to the ground. Throws two, three, four and five are just as bad.  John flushes with embarrassment; he hopes nobody’s watching him.

John runs towards the target and collects his failed attempts. He imagines getting so good at this that he hunts down each terrorist one by one with a fatal, silent knife throw to the cranium. This fantasy keeps him from obsessing about just how easy it would have been for Barsad to accidentally slice his balls off.

John makes another throw and it misses the target altogether.

“Fuck,” he mutters, kicking at the floor.

He’s going to need some practice.

\---

John comes up to the warehouse often to practice knife-throwing and to drink in the fresh air. He sees Barsad walk by from time to time, but the man doesn’t acknowledge John’s presence beyond the briefest of apathetic glances.

_So we’re doing this again......_

 Even if Barsad’s just trying to protect him, it would be nice to have someone to talk to. Anyone. He hasn’t even seen Bane since the night of the party, and most of the other terrorists barely speak English. John doesn’t want to admit it, but he really, _really_ would like to speak to Barsad again, even for a moment. Just to figure out what the fuck is going on between them.

John is collecting three of his failed attempts (two actually stuck that last round!) when he notices that no one’s paying any attention to him. The nearest group of men are at the far side of the warehouse, deep in conversation. Hmm.

_I wonder if I’m allowed up in the offices?_

Discovering the limits of his freedom had been somewhat of a trial-and-error process, so he figures he has nothing to lose by exploring.  The left hand door is locked, but the double doors on the right open into a long dark hallway. John pokes his head through the door warily - it's empty. He can hear distant laughter at the far end of the hall.

He slowly makes his way down the hallway, stopping to admire some particularly artistic graffiti here and there, when he happens to pass by a windowed door. Peering into the office, he sees something out of the corner of his eye-

Is that a _phone?_

_Oh god, please let this door be unlocked....._

John turns the knob and it clicks open. Silently, John slips in the room and closes the door. It doesn’t have a lock and he has nothing to prop against it, so all John can do is pray to God he won’t be interrupted. He lifts up the receiver and...

_Yes!_

_A dial tone!_

His heart is pounding. He grabs the phone and nestles himself underneath the hollow of the desk in just such a way that he’s completely out of sight from the vantage point of the doorway. He cradles the body of the phone in his lap like some precious treasure.

John holds the receiver to his ear and dials a number he’s called many times in the past. There’s only one person in the world he dares to call.....

It rings once, twice.

Three times.

Four.

_Come on, come on...._

“You’ve reached the office of Commissioner James Gordon of the Gotham City Police Department. I’m sorry I’m unavailable to take your call, but if you please leave your name, number.....”

“ _Fuck,”_ John curses under his breath, hanging up.

He waits for what feels like five minutes but is probably five seconds and dials the number again.

Briiiiiiing

Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing

“Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up,” John chants to himself.

Briiiiiiiiiiiiin –

“Hello, Commissioner Gordon here, how may I help you?” the voice on the other line says tiredly. He sounds strained.

“Jim?” John whispers.

“Speaking. Who may I ask is calling?”

John swallows. “It’s me, John.”

There is a pause. “John who?”

His voice is exactly as John remembers it. “John Blake, from unit 17.”  
   
Another pause. “Prove it.”

“What?”

“If you’re John Blake prove it,” Jim repeats, more firm.

“Well.....uh.....you’re wife’s name is Barbara, you have a son, James Jr...”

“Too easy,” Jim says. “What else?”

John wracks his brain and only one thing comes to mind. “Um, well, there was that one time you and me went for lunch at that Mexican place, remember? That shitty little dive on 97th? We got so sick, I almost threw up all over your desk. You still can’t eat burritos.”

Jim exhales audibly into the receiver.

“It is you,” Jim’s voice loses its defensive edge. “Jesus Christ, John. You had to pick that story, ” he says in mock-irritation.

John smiles. “Well, I had to be sure it’s not one you like to spread around, right?”

“You have no idea what a relief it is to hear your voice. I was beginning to think the worst. You’re not.....nobody’s with you, right?”

“No, I’m alone. I found a phone but I can’t talk for long, I don’t know if someone will come looking for me.”

”Are you alright? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Yeah, Jim. Fine, I’m fine. I think I’m somewhere in the dock district, but I don’t know exactly where. In one of the old red brick warehouses.”

“They’ve overrun that part of town, it’s impenetrable. I’m stretched thin as it is.....I can’t...” he doesn’t seem to want to say it. “I don’t think I can come after you.....”

John nods, fiddling with the phone cord. It was the answer he was expecting but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant to hear. “I understand. Don’t put any of the guys at risk for me. I can take care of myself. Really.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself as well as Gordon.

“I’ve been trying to get them to exchange hostages, but they won’t – “

“I know, yeah. It’s okay. You just keep doing what you can to give them a hard time, yeah? Give those fuckers a run for their money.”

“Trying. I really miss having you on my force. I could sure use you on my front lines right now.”

John’s face burns. God, he’s so _useless_ sitting down here in the sewers.

“I can’t imagine what kind of hell they’ve put you through......” Gordon’s voice trails off and John knows he’s thinking of the video Talia sent.

John cringes but keeps his voice normal. He doesn’t want to talk about that now. “I’ll be okay, Jim. Trust me, I can handle it.”

 “I’m so sorry, John. I wish there was something I could do,” Jim says softly.

Jim’s tone is so hopeless that tears are suddenly pooling at John’s eyelashes.  

There is a pregnant pause and John’s breath hitches. Great. Now he’s crying on the phone with his boss.

“How is it on the outside?”John says, wiping his face with his sleeve and changing the subject.

“Bad,” Jim admits. If he knows John’s crying he doesn’t mention it and John’s grateful. “It’s total anarchy. We had our men freed but it’s not enough. There’s not much I can do with the threat of a nuclear bomb hanging over my head. You wouldn’t.....you wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would you? The bomb? I might be able to mount a counter-attack if I just knew...”

“No,” John says as if in apology, like he’s failed Gordon already. “But I found some other things out, maybe you should know,” he takes a calming breath, “The terrorists call themselves The League of Shadows. Bane’s not their real leader. A woman by the name of Talia al-Ghul is.”

“League of Shadows.....” Jim repeats. This is clearly new information to him.

“Yeah. And Talia...this might sound crazy, but I think I’ve met her before, but I can’t remember where. On the outside.”

“What does she look like? Does she have any distinguishing features?”  
  
 _She has no soul, how’s that for a distinguishing feature._

“No, not really. Brown hair, blue eyes, like about a million other women in Gotham.”

“Hmmm. What about Bane?” Jim asks hesitantly.

John tries not to sound embarrassed as the mental image of himself on the porn site comes to his mind. “Bane...well.....he’s not as dumb as you’d think, for how he looks. I think he wears the mask because it doses him with painkillers or something.” Jim’s clearly making notes as John talks and John’s heart leaps that Jim’s taking this seriously. “He seems to consider himself as some kind of anti-hero. A necessary evil. Like Milton’s Satan.”

“What?”

“Paradise Lost.”

 “Ah,” Jim says, even though John can tell he has no idea what he’s talking about. “Do you know what they’re planning?”

“No....not exactly. Mostly the men speak Russian or Arabic or whatever so I can’t eavesdrop. But I think...” John lowers his voice. “I don’t think they’re here to free Gotham like they say. I’m starting to think they’re trying to _destroy_ it.”

Jim pauses. “What makes you say that?”

_I make outrageous inferences based on underlined poetry stanzas and Bible passages._

“The things Bane says offhand sometimes. That Gotham will be _purged._ The sickness Gotham spreads will be purged....that’s what he said, whatever that means.  It’s just a guess, Jim, but I do know that they are finishing up whatever it is they’re doing in Gotham. Bane said that.”

Jim  soaks up this information, then sighs grimly. “You’re a good man, John.”

John means to tell him the same, that he’s looking forward to having Gordon buy him a beer or a new car after all this is over, but instead John hears footsteps approaching down the hall and his heart thumps.

“Quiet, quiet Jim, hold on,” he whispers hurriedly and presses the receiver into the fabric of his shirt.

He clutches the phone in his lap and curls himself into a tight ball underneath the desk as if that were enough to render himself invisible.

The door creaks open and the footsteps enter the room purposefully. John’s heart is beating so fast he’s sure it will give him away.

A voice echoes down the hall and the man shouts back in some other language. He’s so close....

_Leave leave leave leave leave leave_

The man opens a nearby closet and shuffles through it. Before long, his footsteps are retreating down the hallway again. John finally lets out the breath he had been holding. When he’s sure he’s alone again, he lifts the receiver back to his ear.

“You still there?”

Gordon sounds almost as freaked out as John. “Yeah, of course. What was that?”  
  
“Nothing, it’s fine. I’m okay. Hey listen, I need to go, but I’ll call you back if I find anything else out. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m a survivor.”

“I’m going to worry about you, John, whether you like it or not. Just...promise me something.....”

“Yeah, of course, Jim. Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll do whatever it takes to survive. I can’t.......I can’t lose any more of my guys.”

John swallows. _Whatever it takes......_  

“I promise.” There’s a pause. “I really gotta go....”

“Yeah, okay. Take care John, alright?”

“Yeah, I will. You too.”

 John hangs up and breathes out heavily, resting his head against the wood. After a few minutes in silence, he crawls out of the hollow of the desk and places the phone back into its original position. Cautiously, he creeps back into the warehouse proper. None of the men noticed his absence.

He smiles crazily to himself.

He got away with it.

\---

It all begins to change when Barsad gets shot.

\---


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be some fudging of historical facts in the upcoming chapters. I mean no disrespect.
> 
> Oh, and I started a [tumblr blog](http://maryjanenobody.tumblr.com/). It's mainly about my life as a bellydancer, my thoughts on feminist/gender theory as it pertains to art history and fanfiction, and of course gay porn gifs.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been shot. Wouldn’t be the last time, either.

The GCPD ambushed the dockyard where men were unloading fresh supplies. It was a hastily planned attack, Barsad could tell. They didn’t know how to fight dirty, these pampered Gothamite boys in their pressed uniforms. Never learned how to fight like they have nothing left to lose: to scratch and claw and bite.

_Never had to._

Barsad’s men push them back easily and keep shooting as they retreat. It’s only then that Barsad notices the blood gushing from his left leg. He’d been shot.

He’d barely noticed.

The pain sets in on the ride back to their headquarters as the adrenaline begins to get filtered from his veins. It’s just a flesh wound; nothing he couldn’t handle.

The doctor, a scrawny little shrew of a man, attended to him with all the tender care one would expect of someone who probably only has a valid medical licence in Moldova.

“Just do it already, old man” Barsad hisses, strapped to his bed, as the doctor hovers above him with talon-like forceps.

The doctor mutters something but finally sinks into the wound. Barsad growls through the belt he’s biting into. He refused the morphine Bane sent him – there simply isn’t enough of it to go around as it is. He can bear this – he’s been through worse.

The doctor prods and stretches the wound, searching for that little piece of metal. Even with the restraints it’s a struggle to keep still, and there’s not nearly enough vodka in his system to even begin to dull the pain.

Finally, _finally,_ the doctor withdraws his forceps triumphantly and drops the bullet onto his instrument tray. Barsad breathes out and the doctor’s wide-eyed assistant loosens the straps holding Barsad down. His wound is wrapped and Barsad is glad the worst of it is over.

\---

Except it isn't . The pain doesn’t dull, the wound doesn’t heal. His leg throbs and throbs, but he tries his best to ignore it. After a few days he’s limping more than he did the day he was shot.

_Infected._

That night he has to excuse himself from his comrades’ poker game. He’s lightheaded and his leg aches.

He’s in agony as the night wears on.  He can feel his heartbeat in the wound.

_Thump Thump Thump._

He takes off his shirt and opens the window, but that does little to ease his burning skin. His feels like his brain is pushing on the inside of his skull, like the pressure will make his head burst.

He thinks they give him morphine in the morning, but this time he’s too weak to resist.  They prod in his wound and he feels nothing but whiteness.

\---

John’s in a good mood.

As far as being a prisoner here goes, it could certainly be worse.The phone call with Gordon lifted his spirits immensely – just that brief conversation with someone from the outside was enough to give him the will to keep going.  

And now, he has to find out where that fucking bomb is.

His good mood isn't even soured when Bane comes for him that night. It helps that he hadn’t seen him since the party. Sometimes he forgets just how _amazing_ Bane smells after they’ve been separated for awhile.

John is lying on his back, thumbing through the Old Testament when Bane sits down bedside him and gently tugs the book from John's hands.

“I hear you've been practicing your knife throw," he says. He doesn’t sound mad  - that’s a good sign.

"Yeah. I wanted to see how hard it is, seeing as Barsad made it look so easy," John lets a soft sigh escape his lips as Bane pets his hair. "Turns out very."

Bane's  eyes crinkle.

"Barsad is a gifted fighter. A man could practice for many lifetimes and never best him."

_Guess I shouldn't be embarassed that he always beat me so easily._

"I wish I was a fraction as good as him."

 Bane’s hand stills atop his head. "You could be, my little bird, if you stayed with me."

John furrows his brow.

_I am already with you…..I'm pretty much as "with you" as a person can physically get.  
_

Bane reads the puzzled look on John's face and continues, "You are small, but fierce. Braver than I could have ever imagined. I could train you, if you stayed by my side. I could take you places, lift the veil that has kept you from seeing the truth all your life. You think you are my prisoner, but in reality you were always imprisoned. With me as your master, you could change the world. You could be truly free."

Was he.....asking John to _join him?_

Join Bane, the man who has held him prisoner these months, raped him, humiliated him......? _  
_

John wants to say _no fucking way_ , but then, this could be his in.....his chance to access the secrets of this so-called League of Shadows. Gordon’s _counting on him._ John swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, ok."

Bane’s eyes crease and John knows he's smiling widely under his mask. “Good. Good. ” Bane brings his fingertips to John's lips and John obligingly opens his mouth to reciprocate the Bane-kiss. "You have chosen wisely."

It's a double edged sword: his fate is sealed.There was no way Bane would exchange hostages for him now.

Bane hums, lying back completely.

"Take off your clothes, little bird, so that I may look upon you."

John's heart begins to pound as he realizes where this is heading. He moves to obey - it would not be in his best interest to resist just when he is beginning to gain Bane’s trust. Fortunately, he feels himself beginning to react to Banes's scent. It's never as strong as it used to be - he never loses complete control of his faculties anymore -  but it’s enough to make the sex bearable.

(And by bearable he grudgingly means good.)

Once he peels his clothes off, Bane rolls his legs to one side, twisting him so that his back is still somewhat flat against the bed.

"Touch yourself for me," Bane says huskily.

Obediently, John wraps a hand around his half-hard cock and gives it a few strokes. Turning his head towards Bane and breathing in his musk helps John feel less weird about this whole thing.

Feeling Bane's slick fingers at his hole is enough to make him want to whimper. When Bane sinks them in, he actually does.

Bane keeps his other hand at John's mouth and presses the pads against John’s lips. It's intense, to say the least, being filled by Bane in two places at once.  Bane stretches him as gently as John could hope, although John can tell Bane's brutally hard and probably eager to start fucking him. Given that Bane could force him either way, John appreciates that Bane’s trying to be gentle.

When Bane finally sinks his cock inside, John winces. His girth is always a surprise, but to John’s relief (and surprise) Bane pauses to let him adjust. Fingers at John's lips, Bane begins to thrust. It's a weird angle because of the way John's body is twisted, but Bane's cock still somehow manages to hit that spot inside him _just right._

"Oh," John gasps from around Bane’s fingers. "There, there. Slower...just there..."

Bane obliges, grinding his prick into John deep and firm. The constant, perfect pressure on his prostate is making John see stars.

"Keep _going....fuck..."_

Bane’s half behind him and half atop him, swamping his senses with stimulation. John can't last. He shudders as he comes, rutting his hips back onto Bane’s cock and sucking his fingers greedily. He used to get a little sloppy with his kisses when he used to fuck his ex-girlfriend, especially as he was nearing climax. His oral fixation, it seems, is not situation-specific. John wonders how badly he would embarrass himself if Bane wasn't wearing that mask.

As John comes down from his orgasm, Bane fucks into him more roughly. John's relaxed though, and he takes it without too much discomfort.

"You're so beautiful," Bane groans. His absolute sincerity keeps John from feeling too indignant.

Bane climaxes not long after, squeezing John's hip with the hand that's not at his mouth. His grip strength is unreal; it's painful, but mercifully brief.

Bane pulls out but doesn't extricate himself from John's limbs. This is the part John likes best -Bane is so calm and satiated that John thinks he could ask anything of him right now and wouldn't be refused. It doesn't last long, however. Bane eventually sighs and gets up, slipping his military fatigues back on and doing up his belt. John knows he must have business to attend to because there was no way he'd leave John so quickly if he could help it.

There’s a knock at the door. John nearly trips over himself in his rush to put his goddamn pants on.

"Enter."

One of Bane’s commanders opens the door and salutes. His eyes pass over John completely even though it's obvious Bane's just finished fucking him. John blushes anyways.

“What are you doing here?"

“Barsad could not come, comrade. His gunshot wound is infected, he's ill with fever.”

_Barsad’s been shot?_

Bane growls. “Well, send a medic, find some medicine.  Whatever it takes.” His voice is so low and fierce it makes John shudder.

“We have few available medics, brother. I don’t know if we can spare anyone to watch over him....”

“I could do it,” John says, surprising himself with just how quickly he volunteers. “I could watch over him…..”

_Subtle, John._

Bane turns slowly towards John. “You would do that?”

John swallows, suddenly nervous. “Well, yeah. I mean, I’m no doctor, but I know some basic first aid. I feel like I owe him.....for you know. Not killing me. Besides, I don’t have much else to do. He could be my project.”

Bane considers this. “Very well. But I warn you, John, if any harm comes to him –“

“It won’t. I promise.”

Bane stokes John's cheek fondly with his knuckle.

“We must make haste, brother,” the commander says impatiently, still standing at the doorway.

Bane grunts and pulls away.

“I will be back by nightfall,” he says.

\---

John opens the door to Barsad’s room softly in case he was asleep. Barsad’s lying on his back, the sheets reaching up to his waist. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat and goosebumps, writhing helplessly with fever.  John’s heart lurches and he doesn’t know why; he supposes it’s because it’s disconcerting to see someone so vital and strong reduced to such a state.

This being the first time John’s seen him without that grubby jacket on, John is surprised to find out that Barsad has tattoos - _lots_ of them. They are all crudely done black line drawings, reminiscent of the tattoos men come out of Blackgate Prison with. Either Barsad's tattooist wasn’t very skilled or didn’t have the proper equipment or both, because most of them look so poorly done it's almost tragic. Maybe Barsad actually did get them in prison?  They don't even seem to fit a cohesive theme. It’s an eclectic mix of imagery: religious iconography, pin-up girls, skulls, eagles, a knight on horseback.  Many of them are intersected by white, angry-looking scars. John catalogues each of them carefully, placing this new information into his mental “Barsad” file.

One in particular draws John’s attention: a long, solid black bar across his forearm.

_Strange._

Barsad thrashes a little in pain and John presses a hand to Barsad’s forehead. He’s hot to the touch; burning with fever.  Fierce, inexorable Barsad, barely clinging to life.

_C’mon, Barsad, snap out of it._

Barsad’s head lolls to one side and his glazed eyes crack open to peer at John.

“You’re here,” he murmurs, face wan.

“Yeah, yeah.  I’m here. It’s okay, everything will be okay.” John soothes. “They’re going to get you some antibiotics. You’ll be just fine. Just try and rest.”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Barsad croaks. “I thought.....I thought...”

“It’s alright. I know why you don’t think it’s a good idea for us to see each other, but Bane said it’s okay for me to be here. Now try to sit up. You’re dehydrated, you have to drink...“

Barsad doesn’t seem to be listening. He rolls his head on the pillow. “It can’t be,” He says as the sweat glistens off his flushed face.  “I thought I’d.....”

John shushes him and holds a glass of water to his cracked lips. “Just relax, drink this –“

“I’ve been meaning to tell you, but...you....” Barsad whispers.

“Tell me what?”

“That I......I’m sorry.”

“Umm, yeah.  It’s okay,” John stammers, not really sure what Barsad is referring to. Whatever he’s apologizing for, John thinks he can forgive him. “Here, drink this.”

“No, no it’s not,” Barsad shakes his head, refusing the water. Tears form at the corners of his glassy eyes and his brow furrows.

Something doesn’t feel right about this.

“You’re okay, it will be fine –“

 “I’ve been wanting to tell you for so long, but I couldn’t… that I’m so, so sorry.” Barsad repeats faintly, reaching for John’s face. _“Vera.”_

_The fuck?_

_He must be delusional._

 “Uhhhh......no, it’s me John. Your friend, John, yeah?” He brings Barsad’s hand back down to rest on his chest.  

Barsad gazes at him, eyes straining to really _see,_ then sinks back onto his pillow looking even more drained of life than he did before. “Oh,” he mumbles as realization dawns on him. “Yes... John.” He groans and rolls his head towards the opposite wall.

“Drink, Barsad. Come on,” John insists, pushing the glass to Barsad’s parched lips. He manages a few swallows but then he lies back, as if even that small action was too exerting. He closes his eyes.

_That was fucking weird._

\---

_It’s getting dark; the days are growing shorter._

_He breathes into his fists to warm them. The man had been a fool to attack him, to try and wrench his bread roll away from him. He was one of the new inmates, fresh off the trains and full of the brash impulsivity that comes from a looming sense of utter hopelessness. He had a lot to learn about this place if he was going to survive; He was lucky Vasily hadn’t dislocated his jaw._

_Vasily chews on his hard-won prize slowly, savoring each bite._

_The prospect of another winter here is unbearable._

_“You earned that.”_

_Vasily looks up and narrows his eyes. Another one of the recent arrivals, a wiry old man with a prominent aquiline nose and deep-set eyes, is standing over him amusedly. He must be in his sixties, but Vasily can tell he's the type of old bugger who is tough as shit and just too bloody stubborn to die, even when it's  in his best interest to do so. It’s the same man who’s been watching Vasily ever since he got here._

_It’s been starting to get on Vasily’s nerves._

_For a man sent here to be worked to death, he looks awfully pleased with himself._

_“Piss off,” Vasily snarls. He’s doesn’t think he can muster the strength for another fight but can’t afford to show it. He hasn’t seen this man fight yet; he's old, but he could be strong, agile. He’s certainly not half-starved and dead on his feet..._

_......yet._

_The man plops himself down next to Vasily, undeterred. “I don’t want your fucking bread boy, easy now.”_

_Vasily eyes him warily._

_“Vasily, isn’t it?”_  
  
 _“What’s it to you?”_

_The man smiles toothily. “I’ve been watching you.”_

_Yeah. Really obviously too._

_“I don’t know where you’re from, old man, but in here we fucking keep our eyes to ourselves."_

_The man ignores him. “You have a very unique fighting style, you know. Fierce, yet focused. You don’t let your emotions overwhelm you.  It’s not a skill many men possess.”_

_“Yeah, well, if you don’t fuck off you might get to see it first hand.” Vasily spits, hoping it wouldn’t come to that -  he’s tired and sore and  just wants to be left alone._

_The man chuckles. “I don’t doubt you could show me a thing or two. Who taught you?"_

_"Taught me what?"_

_"To fight like that, my dear boy. Someone must have taught you."_

_Vasily shrugs but keeps himself guarded. “No. Nobody.”_

_“Nobody?” the man repeats incredulously._

_“I learned because I had to.”_

_The man almost oozes with interest. “Reeeeally....” The word is long and drawn out. “A natural.” The man leans in closer and lowers his voice. “You’re a good fighter, Vasily, but you could be great.”_

_Vasily snarls. The man is really starting to get under his skin. "Who the fuck asked you?"_

_The man clicks his tongue, not at all troubled by Vasily's belligerence._

_"No one. I just find you.......interesting. That's all."_

_He sits back and crosses his legs casually._  
  
 _“So, Vasily, the self-taught prodigy fighter, what brings you to Kolyma?” The man asks airily, as though he was referring to some tourist destination rather than one of the Soviet Union’s most brutal forced labor camps._

_“What brings you to Kolyma?” Vasily mirrors back viciously, tiring of the man’s smug face and all-too-knowing eyes._

_“Fair enough. I’ll begin. I’m here because I assassinated Nikita Chebrikov.”_

_Vasily chokes on his bread roll ._

_The man raises his eyebrows and smiles._

_"That caught your attention, didn't it?"_

_"You lie."_

_"Me? Never. I assume many of the men here would suck my cock if they knew as much. You’ll be pleased to know he died a painful death, but credit where credit is due, he did take it with the decorum one would expect of the head of the KGB. Granted, I hadn’t quite anticipated to be apprehended....Bloody Soviets, they know how to run a secret police, am I right?" He throws his hands in the air as if to say what can you do._

_Vasily scoffs. "Either you are senile, old man, or you are a fool. Nobody leaves this place alive, don't you understand? You're here to die. Doesn’t it trouble you?"_

_"Oh, it is a bit of a setback, I will certainly give you that. But I promise you, this is not where I will meet my end."_

_He's so confident Vasily's beginning to believe he must have an ace up his sleeve._

_“Now you......let me guess. Young man, clearly not a native Russian. Latvian, or perhaps Lithuanian, I’d guess from your accent. You must be here for high treason against the Soviets, hmm? A nationalist freedom fighter?  Must’ve done something terribly naughty to have been sent here, young as you are....”_

_Vasily clenches his jaw and looks to the floor._

_“Ah.” The man says knowingly. “Figures.”_

_“What do you want from me?”_

_The man’s eyes glimmer in the dim light. “You hate them, don't you? The Soviets? I can see it in your face. You’ve lived your whole life under their yoke, bled and suffered at their whim. You want them purged from your homeland, yes?  Want their empire to fall to ruin?”_

_The man focuses his energy on Vasily like a laser beam. It’s so intense that it makes Vasily squirm._

_“What if I told you I’m part of a brotherhood that’s seeking to accomplish just that?”_

\---

John’s in the middle of _Macbeth_ when Barsad starts to stir. This time, when Barsad turns to look at him, his eyes are bleary with morphine, but not feverish.

“Hey,” John says.

Barsad blinks at him and rubs his eyes.   He shifts uncomfortably in the bed once he notices he’s shirtless. Then he blushes. Blushes!

_He’s self-conscious!_

“How long have you been sitting there?” he mumbles.

John shrugs. “I dunno. Long enough. I guess this English Renaissance literature crap was so gripping I lost track of time,” John says, waving the book in the air for emphasis. “How are you feeling?”

Barsad sits himself up just a little. “Better.”

“Does your leg hurt?”

"No. They must have given me the morphine,” he says, more to himself.

“Yeah. Bane insisted on it. I guess there was a piece of fabric lodged inside your gunshot wound. The doctor didn’t know when he stitched you up. You almost went into septic shock. Bane wasn’t too happy.”

“No, I imagine not.”

John laughs a little. “You’re crazy, you know that? You almost died. Don’t you care?”

Barsad shrugs and looks away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

_Here we go again._

John furrows his brow. “Uh, it’s alright, remember? Bane said I could come keep an eye on you, all his other men were busy and I thought.....” John pauses. “Do you want me to go?”

Barsad shakes his head slowly.

John feels a little warmth creep inside his belly but tries to ignore it. “Then what? What’s the problem?  I know you’ve been avoiding me because you’re scared of getting us in trouble with Bane, but trust me, I have the Bane situation under control.”

“Bane’s not the one you should be worried about....” Barsad says.

“Yeah, well, even Talia wouldn’t dare touch me now.”

‘’You shouldn’t underestimate her.”

John frowns. “Listen, if there’s anyone who should know that by now, It’s _me_ , and I’m telling you I have everything under control. Now since you’re awake I’m going to read you act one, and you’re going to lie there and fucking take it.”

Barsad glares and him but says nothing.

John then proceeds to butcher Shakespeare in a way that would make Kenneth Branagh’s ears bleed. He stumbles over the wordy prose, he mispronounces words that he should probably know, he tries to do different voices for each character and then gets them mixed up, his timing all wrong –

When he finishes the last scene in act one he looks up and Barsad is still staring at him.

“Well?”

“That was really good,” Barsad says, deadpan.

It’s quiet for a moment and John bursts into laughter. To his surprise, Barsad’s chapped lips stretch into a smile. He laughs. John’s never heard Barsad laugh before. 

 _Must be the morphine_.

“Yeah, yeah, asshole,” John smiles warmly. “My characterization was just too subtle for your uncultured terrorist palette.”John sets the book on the floor. “Maybe if you’re nicer to me I might do the next act for you.”

“I would only be so lucky.”

John grins again. “So, uh, I didn’t know you had tattoos.”

Barsad mood shifts almost instantaneously. “Yeah,” he says awkwardly. “I don’t usually like to show them. I know they’re ugly,”

 “They’re not ugly....” John starts, but then quiets. He can’t really think of a way to finish that sentence.

Barsad smiles softly at John's white lie. “This one is. My tattooist made a mistake on her face. She’s cross-eyed and her hand is warped.” He peers down at the grotesque pin-up on his upper arm.

John sits on the edge of Barsad’s bed and takes a closer look. It was in fact, a terribly done tattoo. The pin-up girl looked demented rather than sexy. “Okay, that’s one’s pretty bad,” John concedes. “This one too,” John teases gently as he traces the lines of a particularly amateurish flaming skull.  “Why’d you get these?”

Barsad shrugs. “I was young and stupid,” he said, as if that explained everything. “It was on a whim.”

_On a whim? You, Barsad?_

“I find it hard to believe you’d do anything impulsive.”

“Even I was young once,” Barsad says, tapping on his other shoulder, “but I still like this one, Saint Jude the Apostle. Patron saint of lost causes.”

Something about the way he said it made John swallow hard.

“I didn’t take you for a religious man.”

“Religious? No. I have been to Jerusalem twice, to the fountains at Lourdes. I’ve seen the Kaaba in Mecca. I’ve met ascetics in Calcutta and monks in Tibet.  But I have yet to see God.”

John blinks.

_He’s just full of surprises._

 “So uh.....why all the Marys and the saints and stuff?”  

“I suppose there’s simply something about a symbol that’s bigger that yourself, that makes you feel like you’re connected to something important.”

John nods. “Yeah. I know what you mean. That was kind of why I decided to join the GCPD . Yeah, I wanted the gun and the badge, but I think more than anything what wanted was ....I dunno. To belong.”

 They pause in a moment of mutual understanding.

John turns Barsad’s forearm.

“What about that one?” he asks, gently tugging at Barsad’s wrist.

Barsad immediately retracts his arm and curls it towards his chest.

 “Let me see,” John says softly. “Please. Let me see,”

Barsad eventually relents, allowing John to pull his arm away.  When John looks closely, he notices that the bar is not uniformly black – there are some markings that are just a shade darker than the rest.p

No, not makings.

_Numbers._

“That one,” Barsad mumbles bitterly, “was my first tattoo.”

John thumbs it and he could swear Barsad’s breath hitches.

“Fuck, man.....” John whispers. “I can’t.....I can’t believe they were still doing this. I’ve read about it during, like Stalin’s time, but......”

“Deep enough into the Siberian wilderness, you can hide almost anything.” Barsad says.

“But surely the UN, NATO..... there has to be an international human rights watchdog for shit like this...”

"The west only sees what it wants to see," Barsad scoffs. “You are young and naive, John, if you believe they would have helped me, even if they knew.”

 “So you tattooed over it.....”

“I didn’t want to look at it anymore.”

“You could have had it removed. They can do that now, laser them off.”

Barsad shakes his head. “No. I didn’t want to look at it, I never said I wanted to forget.”

John thumbs over the black strip thoughtfully. “So.......what did you do to get this?” he whispers.

At first he thinks Barsad won’t answer, but then he sighs:

“Back in my native country, we were suffering under Soviet rule. They were brutal, corrupt. There wasn’t enough food to go around. I joined the underground resistance movement. We sabotaged railways, firebombed Soviet government buildings, distributed pamphlets.....always on the run.”His eyes don’t drift from where John is still holding his wrist, “......but I could not run forever. Not from the KGB.”

“You couldn’t have been that old,” John says, mouth gaping.

“No, just a child. I followed my older brother.”

“And he.....what happened to him?”

Barsad shrugs indifferently. “I don’t know. He might be alive somewhere, back home.” he pauses. “But I doubt it.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry man,” John says dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

“You don’t have to be, it was a long time ago.”

John suddenly realizes how close they’re sitting – how utterly still it is in the room. Their foreheads are nearly pressing together. Barsad looks a little dazed, his hair sticking up at odd angles where it’s not plastered to his face. He’s handsome, in a severe way. His eyes are soft.

There’s about a million other questions John wants to ask since Barsad’s still loopy with morphine and not  his usual tight-lipped  self -  about his time in  the work camp, about how he was freed, about why he came to Gotham.

 Most of all, however, what he wants to say is:

_Why did you kiss me?_

As John sits there, frozen, he wonders what it would be like to lean just a tiny bit forward and close the distance between them. Rather than ask, he could just…..

The moment is interrupted as the sound of heavy footsteps echo down the hall. Barsad immediately pushes him away, and in a flash, John’s sitting back on his chair with _Macbeth_ opened at a random page. Mere seconds later, Bane strides in. John’s heart is thumping in his chest.

Barsad tries to sit up in a show of respect but Bane waves him down.

“Barsad,” he starts warmly, “You look well. It is good to see you’re recovering.”

“I have you to thank. I know there aren’t any medical supplies to spare.”

 “You are my brother, Barsad. I would do anything to preserve your life.”

Barsad nods once and drops his eyes briefly, as if to say the same.

“And John has not been bothering you?”

“No, he tended to me well.”

Bane’s gaze shifts to where John’s sitting. John hazards a small smile and holds up the book.

“I’ve been ruining Shakespeare for him,” John says, trying not to appear too nervous.

“I don’t doubt I owe my speedy recovery to his care.” Barsad continues.

Bane grunts, obviously satisfied. “Good, good. Then he will return tomorrow, if that would please you.”

“You are too kind, brother.” Barsad says. John detects a trace of guilt in the words.

“Now rest, build up your strength. Come, John.”

John rises, slowly, and goes to him.

As soon as he’s back in Bane’s room, Bane wraps his arms around him and squeezes him from behind.

“You please me, John.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark stuff ahead, folks. Heed the warnings.

_It is burning. The heat of it cuts through the cool of the early spring air, searing his face.  The officers trapped inside have it worse - they are burning like the blazing red of their flag._  
 _The men in grey are coming, Mikhail had said. Go home and wait for me._  
 _I will come for you._  
 _Obediently, he runs to their shack and hides in the crawlspace underneath the floorboards._  
 _He waits. And waits._  
 _He waits until the following day, and then the day after that._  
 _Mikhail doesn’t come._  
 _Instead, the men in grey come. Their boots are heavy against the floorboards above his head. They’re after him now; he can’t stay here anymore. They could come back at any moment. He has to leave._  
 _He decides to run – head for the capital city, find more members of the underground resistance. He can hide in the crowds, pickpocket, make himself disappear._

_It’s his only chance to survive._

\---

After his visit with Barsad, Bane invites John to dine with his officers that night. At first, John’s not keen on the idea – _if Bane makes me sit on his lap again I swear to God_ – but thankfully Bane sits him on a barstool next to his armchair. Talia, as usual, sits at Bane’s right.

If having John join them for dinner troubles the other League of Shadows officers, they don’t seem to show it.

The officers talk in a language John doesn’t understand, every so often breaking out into rowdy laughs.  John is served some kind of beef stew, a loaf of bread and a pint of beer.  It’s awkward to have to sit there on display and not know what’s going on or what the others are talking about. Bane sometimes rests his hand on John’s thigh underneath the table, but thankfully nobody seems to notice.

Just once, John would like to see Bane eat. He never takes off that goddamn mask. You’d think a guy that big would eat like a wolverine, but John has yet to see him ingest a morsel of food. He just sits there at the head of the table, enjoying the companionship of his closest men and pawing at John under the table.

“I brought you something,” Bane says to John as he finishes the last of his supper. Reaching into his coat pocket, Bane pulls out what appears to be a plastic bag of individually wrapped chocolates.  Bane looks at him expectantly.

_Seriously?_

“Uh, thanks.” John says, his cheeks burning.

“Go on,” Bane rumbles, waving his hand.

John rips open the plastic bag with his teeth and unwraps one of the small candies. He feels like he should hate this more than he does, taking candy from Bane,  but it’s been months since he’s had chocolate and the sight of them is making his mouth water.

 “Mmmmm,” John says emphatically as he pops one in his mouth and Bane’s eyes crease at the ends.

 _Well, he’s trying. There’s that_.

Talia glares at him from across the table. John is audacious enough to grin at her slightly with a mouthful of chocolate.

Then she winks at him.

 John stops chewing for a moment.

_That was…unnerving._

He can’t linger on it, however. Bane is watching him intently.

“Good, John?”

 “Yeah,” John says. “But I prefer milk chocolate.”

Bane ruffles his hair affectionately. “So demanding, little bird,” he grumbles, but his tone is fond.

Later that night, they fuck.

Bane lies back on his cot with John straddling his lap. John doesn’t know if he’s feeling much of a pheromone reaction to Bane, but he’s a little bit drunk, so it doesn’t seem to matter anyway.

And when he’s drunk he gets ballsy.

John rolls his hips sensuously in Bane’s lap, coaxing a low growl from Bane’s lips.  He slowly draws himself up and down, panting with exertion.  Bane’s hands rest on his hips and squeeze maybe a little too tightly, as if Bane’s trying to keep himself from rutting John too forcefully.

As far as sex positions go, this one is probably the best, if only because John can pretend that he has a modicum of control over the rhythm. He angles himself so that he grinds himself slowly onto Bane’s cock, rubbing the sweet spot inside him just so…..and…

“Fuck,” he breathes, stroking himself as he shifts his hips from side to side.

He speeds up as he nears climax, although it’s not nearly the pace Bane would set if it were up to him. John rocks back and forth, then up and down, then back and forth again, and it’s good, it’s fucking good....

For a second he wonders if it would be this good with Barsad.

_Wait, what?_

_Fuck._

_That was just a sex dream and nothing more._

“My name, little bird. Say my name when you come.” Bane growls, his fingers at John’s lips.

If anyone asks, it’s the potent mix of alcohol and residual pheromones that’s making John get a little theatrical with it.

“Yes. Oh my God, Bane,” he moans and tosses his head back, exposing his long neck.  Bane takes a hold John’s cock and strokes him as John works himself into a frenzy.

“ _Bane_ ,” John stills, toes curling, with Bane’s cock deep inside him. The waves of orgasm run up and down his spine and John’s muscles spasm in pleasure.

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_

Bane, as usual, outlasts him.

_Fuck his fucking stamina._

Bane flips their positions in one swift motion and fucks into John more roughly than before, roaring when he climaxes a few thrusts later. They lie there, panting, until Bane finally pulls out and lies down next to John.

John wants nothing more than to drift off into sleep, but Bane is so relaxed and amiable that he thinks now would be a good time to try and get him to talk. He rests his chin on Bane’s chest and sighs as Bane brings his hand to rest on his lower back.

“Tell me about the League of Shadows,” he says without preamble. He should have eased Bane into the topic, but his inhibitions are still significantly lowered from all that beer he drank at dinner.  “I mean, since you want me to come with you….”

 “Have you ever heard of the Mandate of Heaven?”

John shakes his head.

“It is an ancient Chinese philosophy. You see, the Chinese viewed history as cyclical, while here in the West it is viewed as linear.”

John frowns.

_Just answer the damn question._

 “I’m not sure I understand.”

“When the emperor’s rule was peaceful and prosperous, it was said that he had the Mandate of Heaven.  But if his dynasty weakened, if war and uprisings and famine cursed the land, then it was said that he lost the Mandate of Heaven, and he was fit to be overthrown. You see?” Bane draws a circle in the air with his finger. “History progresses in cycles. One dynasty reaches its peak, then declines. Another takes its place, rise and fall. Over and over. But in the west, it not believed to be so. No, in the west it is thought that history moves in one direction like a river, towards progress and modernity. You stubbornly refuse to do away with those old institutions and empires that no longer benefit civilization. You’d rather they cling to life like a parasite upon the earth. If true progress is to be made, one must sweep away the corrupt and the corpulent and make way for the new.”

John takes a moment to try and digest this.

“And I, John, am the agent of Heaven. I am a necessary evil.”

 John swallows. “So…..what does that have to do with Gotham?”  
  
“The League was with Alexander when he defeated the Persians, with Alaric when he sacked Rome, at the fall of Constantinople, and at the dissolution of the U.S.S.R. It is as old as civilization, and is necessary for humanity to progress. You see, John, Gotham’s time is over. It does not know it’s time is over, so we must come and put it out of its misery.”  

John’s head is racing. _They’re not here to free Gotham. They’re here to…._

“Yeah,” John says quietly. He’s terrified for Gotham now but can’t show it. “I guess that makes sense.”

Bane strokes his cheek. “You needn’t worry, my little songbird. No harm will come to you.”

_But it will to Gotham?_

John doesn’t sleep at all that night.

\---

The following morning, John knocks at Barsad’s door, _Macbeth_ in hand.  He had saved some of the chocolates from last night for Barsad, which was kind of a strange thing to do in hindsight and took pretty much all of his bloody willpower.

  
“Barsad. It’s me. Can I come in?”   

Nothing.

John knocks again. “Barsad?”

Stifling a twinge of worry, John pushes open the door to find the room empty.

 Barsad's bed is unmade and his duffel bag is open, his clothes strewn across the floor. He really knows he shouldn't, but the urge to rummage though Barsad’s bag is too tempting to resist. Can he help it if he’s a naturally curious person? Cautiously, John crouches down and opens the outside pocket. Nothing of interest - cigarettes, disposable razors, socks, a flask.  He unscrews the lid on the flask and takes a whiff. _Vodka_.  
  
John straightens up immediately when he senses someone at the doorway.

“Jesus man, you scared me.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Barsad says. He’s shirtless, his hair is wet, and a towel hangs limply around his neck. He’s clearly just shaven, and without his stubble he looks….

_Less terrorist-y?_

“How’s your leg?” John asks.

“Fine.”

“You’re limping.”

“I said it’s fine. I hereby relieve you of your nursing duties."

“I don’t think you should be –“

“Look, I appreciate you coming here and snooping through my things, but really, it’s fine."

John's face burns. "Sorry,” he mumbles. “I shouldn't have done that." he's about to offer an excuse, but Barsad doesn’t seem to be mad. He's actually a little....amused.

Barsad walks over, picks out a clean shirt and pulls it over his head. John notices he has tattoos across his back too, but doesn’t get a chance to fully inspect them.  "I don't have anything interesting, you needn't bother."

John sits on the bed. "No trans-racial gang-bang midget porn, huh?"

Barsad smirks. "You're a strange man, John." Then, without missing a beat, he says, "That's in my other bag."

He’s so deadpan that it takes a moment for that to sink in. When it does, John bursts into laughter.

_Fucking comedian!_

Barsad is literally the last person on earth John would expect to have a sense of humor.

Barsad seems a bit stunned at John’s wild laugh, but his lips curve into a grin. It might be John's imagination, but he his face turns soft. _Fond._

"Yeah, you're probably into some kinky shit, uptight as you are."

Barsad's smile fades.

"You really should go, John."

Of course he says that, just when John's starting to see the real Barsad slipping through the cracks. Truth is, John _likes_ what he sees under there:  compassion, gentleness, a fucking sense of humor. But every time John comes close to touching it, Barsad pulls away, hiding behind his mask of harsh indifference.

John’s fucking sick of it.

John nods, jaw clenching. He moves towards the door, but rather than leaving, he shuts it and presses his back against it.  
  
“I’m sick of this, Barsad.”

Barsad threads his belt through his pant loops.

“I don’t know what you're talking about."

“You know damn well what I’m talking about.  I want to know what this,” he waves his finger back and forth, “is between you and me, and I’m not leaving until I do.”

 “Keep your voice down,” Barsad hisses, stepping towards John. He lowers his voice. “There is nothing between you and me.”

“Then why did you kiss me, huh?” John says quietly. Barsad clenches his jaw. “Tell me.”

“That was a mistake.”

 _Funny. It didn't_ feel _that way._

“And what if there was no Bane, no Talia, no League of Shadows, what then? If you were you and I was me and none of this other shit was going on, would it have still been a mistake?”

Barsad pauses. “Yes.”

John purses his lips.

 _Fine, asshole._  
  
“Then why are you helping me? Huh? Why do you try to protect me from Talia? Why should you care if she wants me dead?”

Barsad shrugs, dropping his defensive tone somewhat. “You remind me of someone I used to know.”

 _Oh ho, now we’re getting somewhere_ _._

"Who?"

Barsad sighs, walking over to the closet and pulling out his coat.

“.....Vera, right?” 

Barsad freezes, his eyes wide in shock.

“How did you……how do you know that name?” he whispers.

_Gotcha._

“You called me that when you were delusional with fever. Why? Who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Barsad growls, gripping John by the upper arms firmly and pulling him away from the door.”You have to leave, John. Now.”

John’s too stubborn to give up that easily. “Was she your girlfriend, Barsad? Your wife?”

Barsad opens the door and all but shoves John into the hallway. “Out."

He’s about to shut the door, but John crowds the doorway.

“Was she someone you loved?”

Barsad pauses with the door opened just a crack.

“More than anything,” he whispers, and closes the door in John’s face.

\----

_It was in the capital city that he met her.  Her, with her dark hair and dark eyes and easy laugh and mischievous grin. He can’t say it was love it was first sight, because how much does a stupid eleven year old boy know about love?_

_She’d sneak out to meet him every other night. Her father wouldn’t have approved if he’d known._

_“What makes you think I want to marry you?” she says._

_He smiles. “Because no one else would want you.”_

_She punches him in the shoulder. “Shut up, Vasily. I could have anyone I wanted. Besides,” she tries and fails to skip a stone across the water, “You’re a street rat.”_

_“So are you.”_

_She glares at him. “Not technically.”_

_“Close. Your house is a shithole.”_

_“Fine,” she concedes. “You buy me a nice house and I’ll marry you.”_

_“Alright.”_

_“But it has to be nice, Vasily. With electricity and……and a television.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“And…..” she thinks for a minute. “Lilac curtains.”_

_He winces. “Yuck. Not in my goddamn house.”_

_She laughs and shoves him playfully. “Then you’ll be stuck with me.”_

_“God help me.”_

_\----_

_At first, it is a night just like any other. The air is beginning to warm as the winter fades to spring. Meeting her at the bridge had become somewhat of a ritual over the course of the last year, but even after all that time, knowing she’ll be coming soon is enough to make his stomach flutter. Even if they had fought (which they did, often), he could always count on her to show; it’s like an unspoken rule._

_So he waits. And waits.  She’s often late, but never this late._  
  
 _She doesn’t come._  
  
 _Instead, the men in grey come._

_\---_

Since Barsad didn’t seem to need him around, John has nothing better to do than to go back to Bane’s room and maybe indulge in a nap.  He hadn’t been able to sleep after his talk with Bane.

_Fuck._

 John’s sure that they are going to set off that bomb. It wasn’t a matter of if; it was a matter of when.

_They mean to destroy Gotham._

He’d believed Bane when he’d said that John wouldn’t be harm him, but now he has more to worry about than his sorry ass. What about all the other citizens of Gotham?  About the kids at St. Swithins? What about Gordon?

As he walks into Bane’s room, he notices something amiss out of the corner of his eye – The latches on Bane’s chest are open. They’re _never_ open.

Either Bane trusts him or is getting too lazy to bother or just plain forgot to lock it. Glancing warily over his shoulder to make sure he was truly alone, John crouches down and lifts the lid. Inside is the long scroll he’s often seen Bane with, but he’s never had a chance to see what’s on it.

As he unravels it, he gasps.

_A map of Gotham._

Although John can’t read the notes scrawled along the edges, based on the random markings, it looks like there’s something important over on 34th…..

_The bomb._

Heart pounding, John tucks the scroll back in the chest. He can’t be sure, but…

  _What else could it be?_

He heads back up to the warehouse, hoping to find it relatively empty, but finds instead groups of men milling about, emptying crates and smoking. John spends the afternoon knife-throwing, praying that the men would dissipate enough for him to slip into the warehouse offices unnoticed.

His chance comes around mid-afternoon, when the largest pack of them get in their armored vehicle and leave. John slips away through the double doors and creeps down the main hallway until he finds the door with the glass window.

Silently, John opens the door and slips in. So far, so good.

He ducks underneath the desk with the phone and cradles it next to his chest.

_Briiiiiiiing_

_Briiiiiiiing_

“Come on, come on….” John whispers to himself.

_Briiiiiiiing_

“You’ve reached the office of Commissioner James Gordon of the Gotham City….”

John hangs up “Damn it Gordon, answer your goddamn phone,” he mutters to himself.

He waits for a few seconds and tries again.

 “You’ve reached the office…..”

“ _Fuck,”_ he curses. He doesn’t have time for this, and he doesn’t have any other number to reach Gordon.

He dials one last time. This could be his only chance to get the message out.

“You’ve reached the office of Commissioner James Gordon of the Gotham City Police Department. I’m sorry I’m unavailable to take your call, but if you please leave your name, number, and a brief message, I will get back to you as soon as I can. Have a nice day.”

_Beeeeeep._

“Uh, hi, Jim, it’s me, John. John of the Mexican food poisoning….” John winces and already wishes he could start over. “….Yeah. Listen, I think I know where the bomb is, I found one of their maps of Gotham. I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s hidden somewhere around 34th and  Macpherson. And listen, Jim, they are planning to detonate it. You have to evacuate Gotham – I know there are blockades, combat zones, but you have to try. I don’t know when they’re planning to set it off, it will probably be soon…..” John pauses as he hears someone walk past the door. He hushes his voice further. “If we can’t save Gotham than we can at least save her citizens.” John swallows and then takes a deep breath. “I have to go. But please, Jim, be careful, yeah? And don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

John should say something really meaningful to Jim, in case it’s the last time he’ll ever get to communicate with him. He should say, _thank you for believing in me, for always being there for me, for being like a father to me….._

_I love you._

But he can’t say that - it would feel too much like a goodbye, like he was already giving up on himself. So instead he says, “Thank you for everything, Jim.” and hangs up.

It’s done.

There’s nothing left for him to do now but wait.

\---

Barsad is smoking with his fellow officer, trying not to think about his exchange with John back in his room. He can't ignore the dull throb in his leg, but he wasn't about to let himself be alone with John again if he could help it. John had ways of coaxing thoughts and memories from Barsad's mind, things that Barsad didn't want to have to acknowledge. Every moment with him is a reminder that it was Barsad who brought him here in the first place; the guilt eats away at his insides until he drinks it away at night. 

So Barsad does what he does best - he loses himself in the League's work, busies himself with commanding Bane's army, readies the men for the final stage of their plan. That's what he's always done to get by.

One of Talia’s men comes for him.

“She wants you,” he says. Barsad has no choice but to comply.

He’s led into one of the large open spaces down in sewers, but stops in his tracks when he sees Talia, John, and a few of her most trusted men inside. John looks terrified, and he’s shaking.

Barsad clenches his fist, ready for a fight. He could take down every one of these men if he had to.

“What do you want?” He says evenly.

“Ah, he’s here,” Talia says warmly. “Now we can ask him.”

The smug look on Talia’s face gives him pause.

“Barsad….” John starts, but his breath hitches.

“Ask me what?” he grits out, somewhat less confident than a moment ago

Talia walks up to him and hands him a photo. “What the meaning of this is.”

_A photo of him kissing John the night of the party, taken from what looks like the second story window of the warehouse offices._

Barsad’s stomach drops.

“Speechless I see,” Talia drawls. “I’ve known about your little romance for some time, but I couldn’t stand to see you two keep going behind Bane’s back like that any longer. You’ll hurt his feelings, you know. Bane does not like to share.”

This is it. This is their end.

_It’s all my fault. I am so sorry John…_

“I get the impression that your affections are not unrequited." She glances back to John. "Tell me, John, do you care for Barsad, hmm? You think he’s your knight in shining armor, that he’s different than the rest? Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this,” she pauses for dramatic effect, “but he’s not. I bet he never even told you about his initiation into the League of Shadows, about his test of loyalty.”

“Talia….” Barsad begins, but can’t finish his sentence. He feels like he can barely breathe.  
  
“Or do you want to tell it? I think John ought to know what kind of person _you really are_.”  
  
“Talia, don’t.” Barsad pleads.

 _If John knew…._    
  
“Tell me what?” John swallows. “Barsad…?”

Talia grins, knowing she’s won. “ Yes, tell us, Barsad. What did Cyril ask of you those many years ago? “

Barsad says nothing, but hangs his head in shame.

“No? You don’t remember? Well as it so happens, I do.”

\---

_Cyril slams a folder down in front of Vasily’s face._

_“Looks like the KGB was keeping some very interesting records about us,” he says._

_Vasily thumbs through the folder. It has his name, his picture, transcripts from his interrogation, the date he was committed.  Prisoner number 1199484, detained for aiding in the terrorist bombing of Soviet headquarters in Alytus and the murder of Commanders Ananyev and Golovanov. Sentenced as an adult to 25 years labor in the northeastern Siberian territory of Kolyma._

_It might as well have been a death sentence._

_Cyril reaches around him and flips to a bookmarked page. “I think it’s time you stopped pining for your little sweetheart back home.”_

_Vasily glares down at the page beneath him. His Russian is still pretty poor, but he can pick out a few key words:_

_Bridge_

_April 17 th, 1986._

Vera

_“You shouldn’t have been so quick to trust her with your secrets, it seems.”_

\---

_When Vasily walks into the room, the first thing he notices is the walls, which are painted a saturated, nauseating yellow. Grimy and run down in a way that only old Soviet era buildings seem to be. The relentless summer rain is leaking through the cracks in the ceiling._

_And that’s when he sees her._

_Her._

_Vera is sobbing, hands curled protectively over her head. When she hazards to look up, her eyes light in recognition._

_“Vasily...?”she chokes. “Is it really you?” She’s beat up almost beyond identification, her once immaculate face marred with bruises._

_Vasily hardens himself, clenches his jaw as he looks down at her. It’s been so, so long since he’d seen her last. She’s grown, a young woman now. Vasily supposes she’d be beautiful, if she weren’t so badly beaten up._

_A mix of relief, happiness and pain flash across Vera’s face._

_“It is you, I thought you were dead….” She smiles, but her face sinks when Vasily doesn’t respond. “God.....what did they do to you?” Vera breathes. “You look.....so...”_

_Vasily clenches his jaw, trying to swallow the twinge of pity he feels building in the back of his throat._

_“They sent me to Kolyma,” Vasily says, looking down at her callously. ”....Because of you.”_

_Vera’s eyes widen in horror and new tears spill out. “God, oh God, Kolyma, Vasily.....I’m so sorry, I had no idea.....please, you have to believe me, I didn’t want to tell them about you, I tried, god, but they interrogated me, it's  no excuse I know….I was so afraid...” Vera whimpers and clings at Vasily’s pant legs from her place on the floor. “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret it, that I don’t think of you...I’ll never forgive myself, never....”_

_“Do it,” Cyril says sharply._

_Vera’s panicked eyes skirt to Cyril, then fall back on Vasily’s entreatingly. “Please, no,” she whispers. “Vasily, this isn’t you.....I know you. Please. You aren’t like them....”_

_“Do it,” Cyril repeats, more insistent this time. “Don’t you understand what she’s done? She betrayed you, Vasily. You and your fellow freedom fighters, your comrades. Everything you told her she fed to the Soviets, undermining what we’ve been working so hard to achieve. Haven’t you, you bitch?” He viciously kicks her in her stomach and Vera curls in on herself protectively._

_“Please, have mercy – I didn’t want to –“_

_“Shut up, he’s had enough of your lies,” Cyril spits. “It’s because of traitors like you that the parasitic mess that is the Soviet Union has been able to go on for as long as it has. Its time is coming to an end, we will make sure of that – and nobody will stand in our way, especially not Soviet sympathizing street whores like you. Now, Vasily. Put this bitch in her place. Prove to me where your loyalty lies.”_

_Vasily hesitates. Even after all this, after the years lost, he hadn’t stopped caring for her, thinking of her, wondering where she was and if she was alright. The only thing that had got him through the five long years in the gulag was the dream of finding her again, of being together, of their house with the lilac curtains. He thought about her every goddamn day; it was often all he had to keep him warm during those endless Siberian winter nights._

_And all along….._

_Vasily’s lost everything, has nothing, is nothing. Because of her. He looks down at her, pathetic wretch, and the anger in him festers anew, consuming his mercy, blinding him with hate. She doesn’t deserve his forgiveness. The League is his family now, the only people he can trust. If it weren’t for them, for Ra’s al-Ghul, he’d still be back in the gulag being worked to death like a nameless animal.  He had suffered like no one should be made to suffer. Starved, bled, frozen. Alone._

_“No, Vasily, please....”_

_He crouches down next to her, and her eyes gleam with the faintest hint of hope. He can’t stand to look at her._

_Vasily rolls her onto her stomach, and Vera struggles weakly, begging, pleading. Vasily is bigger, stronger – he’s put on a lot of muscle in the year and a half since he and Cyril had been rescued from the gulag. Vasily pins her down easily, forces her legs apart. He bunches her skirt up over her hips. This isn’t at all how he had imagined his first time with a woman – with Vera - would be like. He doesn’t know how he can get hard._

_She screams and claws at the floor while he fucks her. He tries to block it out, fixates on the yellow wall in front of him, on the steady drip drip of the rain on the back of his neck._

_He comes, but it is empty. Numb._

_Vasily climbs off her and tucks himself away._

_“Finish it,” Cyril commands, handing him a pistol. Vasily hesitates at first, but then takes it. He aims for her head – quick and painless, like she doesn’t deserve._

_“I still love you,” she chokes out –_

_BANG_

_Vasily’s finger slips and Vera collapses, lifeless, to the floor. He should feel angry, upset, pity…..something….anything……._

_But no._

_He feels nothing._

_Cyril claps him on the shoulder, smiling darkly. “Welcome to the League of Shadows, Barsad.”_

\---

The memory hits Barsad in the chest like a cannonball. He sees it as plain as that night  twenty years ago. Twenty long years of running from his past, of avoiding the truth.

 “No, tell me you didn’t.” John breathes, aghast. “Barsad, tell me that’s not true…”  Barsad’s heart lurches at the way John’s looking at him now.

_Fear._

_Disgust._

_Revulsion._

_I deserve it._

_I deserve to burn in hell._

Talia smiles darkly. “Look at him John, you know it is. Barsad is a rapist and a murderer just like the rest. Did he manage to convince you otherwise, hmm? Did he convince you he loves you? I’m surprised he manages to have feelings for you at all, considering the only person he’s ever loved betrayed him.”

 “She had no choice, Talia.” Barsad growls. “She was young, afraid. They forced her- “

“Ah, but not like you, Barsad. You _did_ have a choice. And when we ordered you to prove yourself, you did so unquestioningly. Because you always follow orders. Loyalty above all else, isn’t that right, Barsad? ”

Barsad’s face wrenches. He’s been lying to himself for so long….

“Now, I have a proposal. I would like you, Barsad, to prove your loyalty to me, just as you did those many years ago. I want you…..”  Talia lowers her voice, “To rape John. I want to watch you to rape him like you raped Vera.”

John tenses with fear, the only sound from his lips is a sharp intake of air.

Barsad can't.

He _can't_.

And he won't .

 “No, Talia.”

She raises her eyebrows. "No? You dare disobey? Obedient Barsad, who always heeds my every command?”

Barsad clenches his fist. “Not this time. I won’t do it”

Talia snarls. “If you don’t, I will show Bane this picture, and see what he has to say about your little romance. I don’t want to, believe me. You’re my good friend and loyal follower, Barsad, and I couldn’t stand to watch what he’ll do to you. But when I heard that Bane had asked his whore to join the League?  It’s an insult to the memory of my father.  I hate to do drag you down with him, but I won’t have him contaminating the League of Shadows. It pains me to do this, but, drastic measures I’m afraid…..”

John sobs softly in the corner.

 “….Trust me,” Talia goes on, “Bane would be much more understanding to find out you’d fucked John than if you’d kissed him…..”

No way would she keep something like this from Bane forever. Submitting would only make it worse.

Barsad shakes his head with finality. “No, Talia. I won’t.”

“But I’m doing you a favor, Barsad. I’m giving you a chance to taste what has been denied to you for so long. Remember what you said to me that one time? That “it’s only physical?” You ought to be thanking me for making your fantasy come true.You hear that John? Barsad has been dreaming about fucking you ever since he brought you here. I bet he jerks off to the thought of it. He was hard as steel when he was fingering you for Bane. How torturous it must have been, knowing that you would never be his. He’s jealous, you know, that Bane ruts you every night…. ”

“It’s okay.” John whispers. “We….we can do it. Barsad….I’d understand….”

His eyes are so full of perfect understanding that it makes Barsad’s heart break.

_Not like this, John. I don’t want you like this._

“See? John wants to. Go on, John, beg him for it. Beg Barsad to fuck you.”

Barsad silences John with a shake of his head before John brings himself to say those humiliating words, and John glances down in understanding. He looks as terrified as Barsad feels but Barsad is better at hiding it.

Talia throws her hands in the air.

 “Have it your way, then. Send for Bane.”


	13. Chapter 13

  
“Well,” Talia says airily, “I wanted a show, looks like I’m going to get one.”

Barsad stares blankly at the floor, lips in a firm line.

_He’s scared too._

“Granted, Barsad, I’m impressed with your restraint; look how prettily John cries.”

Even through his fear, John grits his teeth.

_I swear on my parent’s graves I will kill you, Talia al-Ghul, if it’s the last thing I do._

The heavy footsteps outside the door snap him out of his thoughts. It might be because John’s already terrified, but when Bane enters, he seems somehow _more_ imposing than he normally is.

Bane immediately senses the stifling tension in the room.

 “What is the meaning of this?”  Bane glances from John, to Talia, to Barsad and curls his shoulders back authoritatively. His face softens, however, as he notices John’s distress. “Are you alright, John?”

John swallows when Bane addresses him.

“Well, John? Answer him.” Talia taunts. “Are you alright?”

John pauses, then shakes his head slowly.

“What happened?” Bane growls, eying Barsad suspiciously for the first time. Barsad doesn’t meet his gaze.

 Talia smirks. “It appears that your little bird is not nearly as loyal as you think.”

John presses himself against the wall, wishing he could just disappear. It’s doesn’t feel real when Talia hands Bane the photograph – like he’s watching a movie of himself and is powerless to stop what is going on.

"What," Bane growls, low and predatory, "is this?"

"I'm afraid, my love, that your lover has been going behind your back, sneaking kisses with none other than our most trusted commander. Kisses, and who knows what else? What a terrible betrayal....and just when John was starting to show his potential……."

It’s terribly quiet; the air is so thick John can barely gulp in breaths.

Bane stalks towards Barsad like a predator. "Is this true?" His voice is so low it makes John shudder. Barsad, in the meantime, has somehow managed to position himself between John and Bane.

“Yes,” Barsad says quietly but firmly. “It's true. I forced him. He had no part in it.”

John's mouth drops.

Barsad just….lied. To Bane. Barsad _never_ lies. True, Barsad had initiated the kiss, but it’s not as though  John just stood there and _took it._ What had happened between them that night was electric, and John knows Barsad felt it too.

_He's taking the fall...._

Bane glances over Barsad's shoulder at John. It feels as though he’s looking _straight through him,_ into the deepest recesses of his mind and probing all the secrets there. John wants to defend Barsad, but finds he can’t bring himself to speak with Bane’s steely gaze fixated on him.

“Did he force you?” Bane rasps.

_No. He didn’t force himself on me. Not like you, Bane._

But he can’t say it; his mouth refuses to shape the words. He’s ashamed of how terrified he is.

Bane moves with cold precision, brutal and ruthlessly efficient as he grabs Barsad by the front of the jacket and drags him to the centre of the room. His first hit is right to the solar plexus and Barsad groans, doubling over in pain. Another to the chest and Barsad falls to his knees.

He’s not fighting back.

_C’mon, Barsad, get up…._

Bane picks him up like he weighs nothing and slams him against the far wall, grabbing him before he could collapse and punching him over and over, again and again. Blood begins to gush out of Barsad’s nose and mouth, and _still_ he doesn’t fight back. Doesn’t make a sound save for the soft moans of pain escaping his lips.

It’s too much for John to take.

“No, Bane stop!” John finally manages to shout. “Stop, _please_.”

To his surprise, Bane does, and Barsad crumples to the floor.  Bane turns towards John, eyes searing. He’s not even out of breath.

John cowers against the wall as Bane approaches.

“You care for him?” he says, taking John’s chin in his hand harshly.

John gulps and doesn’t answer.

Bane slaps him across the face and waits as John rights himself. The snap of pain is enough to make his vision turn white.

“Do you care for him?” Bane repeats.

John glances at Barsad’s motionless body at the centre of the room. He’s been trying to deny it, trying to reason himself out of it, trying to make up excuses, but the truth of the matter is:

“Yes,” John whispers.

_I do._

Bane’s brow furrows for a moment, _hurt_ , then his face hardens.

“No other man will have you,” he seethes.“You belong to _me_.”

Bane grabs John and nearly lifts him off the floor, hauling him towards a nearby table. John thrashes instinctively, but it’s useless against Bane’s pitiless strength. Bane throws him down face first and John starts to panic.

“No, Bane please,” he blurts out as he feels Bane position himself behind him. “Please, don’t.”

Bane has him by the back of his shirt and he slams John back down when he squirms. John tries to brace himself against the table, but Bane’s hand is pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, rendering it nearly impossible to breathe properly. Bane tugs at John’s jeans and John lets out a strangled, panicked noise.

When Bane thrusts in, John screams. No lube, no prep – it’s like Bane’s gutting him with each horrible shove of his cock. He’s being split apart, impaled alive.

“Stop, Bane,” John whimpers, “Please stop….”

He swears he feels something _tear_ inside him.

Bane growls and doesn’t stop his assault, brutally fucking John like a ragdoll until he comes with a roar.

Panting heavily, Bane pulls John up by the hair until he’s flush against Bane’s chest with Bane’s cock still buried deep inside him. _Claiming_ him. “After Gotham is destroyed,” he wheezes into John’s ear, “you will serve me, if not as my follower than as my consort and slave.” Bane reaches around John’s neck and squeezes. “If I cannot have your love, I _will_ have your obedience.”

With that, Bane pulls out and throws John, sobbing and bleeding, to the floor.

 “Take him to my room and see that he stays there.”

John’s head is in a fog as he’s dragged out of the room and into the sewer hall. John hardly notices when they toss him on Bane’s bed and wrap  a long length of chain around his neck, padlocking the other end to an exposed pipe.

 John curls in on himself and muffles his tears in the pillow.

\---

John’s not sure how long he lies there. Hours, maybe. His head throbs, to say nothing of the pain _down there._

_Bane tore me on purpose._

 John supposes that his chain has enough slack for him to move around the room, but John can’t muster the energy to drag himself off the cot. He doesn’t even have the will to cry anymore.

_It’s over._

_Barsad is dead._

_This is my life now._

_Bane's whore.  
_

When the door creaks open, John inhales shakily. The soft footsteps indicate that at least it’s not Bane.

He’s rolled over onto his back to see Talia’s face looming above his, all trace of malice erased from her features.

“Oh, John.” She murmurs as she climbs on top of him, straddling his waist with her long legs. John knows he should push her off, should try to strangle her with his chain....anything. But he can't; he’s just so _tired._ What’s the point?

“You’ve been crying,” she observes, but her tone isn’t mocking.

 “You won,” he says wearily.

“Yes,” Talia toys with his chain, “I won.”

John lets out a weary sigh. “Are you here to rub it in? Gloat over your victory?”

“No, John.”

“What do want from me then?”

“This.” She strokes his cheek gently. “Exactly this.”

John rubs the palms of his hands over his eyes so that she wouldn’t see the tears forming there.

“I don’t deserve it.” he says softly. “I don’t deserve what you’ve done to me. I’m a good person.”

Talia smiles. “I know. You’re too good for your own good.”

John blinks. Of all the things he had expected her to say, that was not one of them. “Why, then? What did I ever do to you to make you hate me so much?”

Talia sits back, looking as though it was the most obvious thing in the world and that John should have figured it out by now. “It was never about you, sweetheart. Not at first. You think one measly Gothamite cop was enough to raise my ire? No; I could have had you culled in an instant. It was about Gordon, because Gordon loved you above all others. And then it was because Bane loved you above all others. And now it’s because you toyed with his heart.”

John's at a loss for words. “You must love him.”

“More than you could ever know.”

 “You can have him.”

“Ah.” Talia smiles sadly. “That’s just it, isn’t it? He won’t have me. His love for me is too pure. He idealizes me too much to love me the way he loves you.”

She looks down at John’s chest and thumbs at the fabric of his shirt.

“Strange isn’t it, that you had the one thing I’ve ever wanted in the palm of your hand and it meant _nothing_ to you."

“I didn’t choose this,’ John reminds her. “You’re the one who brought me here….who made me this way…… ”

 Talia smoothes her hand over John’s chest. “I thought if I could make you willing, then I could see what Bane would be like……” her voice trails off.

_What Bane would be like as a lover?_

 “Tell me, John, was he good to you, in the moments when you were alone together?”

 “Yeah, I suppose,” John says, too stunned with how this conversation is going to think of anything better to say.

 “What was it like?”

“What?”

“What was it like when he’d make love to you?” she repeats softly.

John blinks.

_This is fucking messed up._

“Why should I tell you about that?”

“Because then I’ll tell you whether Barsad is still alive.”

_Then there’s hope?_

 “Well, I don’t know. He…..doesn’t know his own strength sometimes….sometimes he’d squeeze too hard….”

Talia is watching him intently. “Go on.”

John can’t believe this is happening. “But he could be gentle too, when he tried.”

Talia nods in contemplation. “He’d hold you, after he fucked you.” she says more to herself.

John nods slowly.

“He won’t anymore,” Talia says simply.

John swallows. “Yeah.”

Talia closes her eyes and hums. “What else?”

“And….he’d kiss me, with his fingers.  He’d run them across my lips as if he was kissing me.”

Instantly, Talia freezes. For the briefest of moments, she looks vulnerable, almost on the verge of tears. Then she swings her leg around and climbs off him.

“Wait, wait! What about Barsad?”  
  
Talia pauses at the door.  
  
“A word of advice, John: it would be in your best interest to never utter that name again.”

\---

\---

\---

It’s black and there is no sound. Empty and bleak, a void that stretches out infinitely in every direction. It’s inescapable and all consuming.

Why try anymore. It’s over. There is nothing left.

Then, out of the blackness, a glimmer of light.

_Get up._

I can’t.

_You have to get up._

It’s over.

_No, not yet. There’s still hope. You have to try._

What if I fail?

_Better to try and fail then to never try at all._

But I’m so tired……

_I will give you strength._

I just want to rest. Let me rest.

_No, not yet. Your time has not yet run its course. There is one more thing you must do; just this one thing and you can come home to me._

_Get up, Vasily._

\---

\---

\---

John is dreaming.

He has to be dreaming, because Barsad is alive and well and talking to him.

Or rather, he’s talking to Barsad, and Barsad is listening. Isn’t that just the way it goes?

Barsad is not wearing his military vest or his worn jacket or his weapon holsters. Instead, he’s dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, and where his tattoos once were there is only clear, unblemished skin. He’s sitting on John’s living room couch with a beer in one hand like it is the most natural thing in the world.

He looks….normal.

John is ranting about Nichols, about the police reports he has piled on his work desk, about how the landlord isn’t fixing the crack in the drywall like he said he would _three weeks ago_ , about the neighbors downstairs fucking too loudly. Just when John feels like he’s about to blow a fuse, Barsad makes some perfectly timed, dry joke and John erupts in laughter, stress and frustration vaporizing from his mood.

Knowing this isn’t real makes it all the more painful.

Barsad smiles and looks up at him from his position on the couch.

_“John, John…….Wake up.”_

That part doesn’t sound like a dream.

John starts, suddenly awake. His vision is blurry and his mind is still somewhat clogged, but there’s definitely a face above his, haloed against the dim overhead light.

“Barsad!” John exclaims, throwing his arms around him a little too hastily - Barsad audibly groans in pain.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, oh fuck, sorry.” John says hurriedly, but Barsad silences him with a finger pressed across his lips.

Barsad smiles weakly. “It’s alright.”

“It’s just…” John whispers, “I thought you were dead…..that Bane killed you, Christ….”  
  
“Yeah.” Barsad says vaguely.

“He hurt you.” John says, noting the bruises on his swollen face and forearms, to say nothing of the ones that are probably underneath his clothes. There are blood stains down the front of his jacket.

Barsad shrugs. “I thought….I thought maybe if I let him take his anger out on me he wouldn’t lay his hands on you….”

John heart melts.

“But he did, didn’t he?”  Barsad adds softly.

“Yeah,” John admits. “But I’m alright now, really.”

It’s true. He is alright now....or at least he could be, in time.

“This was all my fault. I’m so sorry John … If I hadn’t kissed you… _forced_ you….” Barsad looks away.

“You didn’t force me, Barsad.”

John leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of Barsad’s cracked lips. When he pulls away Barsad looks dazed. “Maybe I wanted you to.”

Barsad is still for a long moment, then clears his throat, business-like.

“We have to leave now, while we still can. Gordon’s mounting an attack and Talia’s too busy amassing her men to keep an eye on you, but if they notice I’m gone we won’t have a chance,” Barsad produces a small hacksaw out of his bag. “I’m going to get you out of here. Hurry, John. Lean over the desk.”

John scrambles to comply.

"Alright. Stay still, I have to make a cut from around your neck, if we leave the chain on it will make too much noise."

John gulps. “’Okay.”

Barsad takes hold of a chain link and begins to saw at it. There isn’t enough slack to make this comfortable, and the hacksaw is dangerously close to his neck. The shrill grind of metal against metal rings ominously in his ears, but John figures if there’s anyone he could trust to handle sharp blades around sensitive body parts, it would be Barsad.

“It’s coming, just lie still,” Barsad says calmly. Barsad’s always so fucking calm.

“Almost…almost…..there,” Barsad pulls away the sawn link. The chain slips away from John’s neck and clatters to the floor.

John sighs in relief and rubs the red marks at his neck. “That feels so much better.”

Barsad opens his bag and hands John a gun. “Here, you might need to use this.”

_Fucking yes. Now we’re talking._

John accepts it gladly, tucking it into his waistband and straightening out his shoulders. Fuck, holding a gun does wonders to boost one’s confidence. For being a shitty knife-thrower, John knows he is an excellent shot.

“Don’t fire unless you absolutely have to. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

John nods. He’ll do whatever Barsad says to get out of this place.

“Come on. Quietly, John.”

He follows Barsad out of Bane’s room, down the corridor and through the passages John’s familiar with. Every step aggravates the pain inside him, but Barsad seems to be doing much worse: he’s limping heavily, favoring the leg that hadn’t been shot and cradling his left arm to his chest protectively. Every breath seems to be labored, as though his chest is struggling not to implode on itself. Barsad’s face, however, doesn’t betray the pain he’s surely feeling; he’s as focused and determined as ever.

It hurts John more than he could say to see him in such a state.

Finally, they reach the threshold John’s never been able to pass. Without warning, Barsad pulls John into a small alcove, pressing him against the wall as the sound of footsteps echoes down the hallway.

They stand there, flattened against the wall, frozen and silent. It’s oddly intimate having Barsad this close, chest to chest as they wait for the guards to pass.  If John was with anyone else, he would certainly be panicking by now, but Barsad’s face is so calm and sure and soothing…..

 _It’s going to be alright_ , he seems to be projecting.

It's probably stupid, but John believes him.

The men pass by, walking in the direction opposite to the wall John and Barsad are pressed against. Barsad waits until they’ve turned the corner at the end of the hall and their voices dim before extricating himself from John.

“Let’s go,” he whispers.

Wordlessly, they continue their escape, turning this way and that until John has absolutely no idea where they are anymore. Barsad stops him before each corner to check for guards, then motions him forward when he determines that their path is clear. It’s a slow process; Barsad doesn’t seem to be able to move very quickly with his injured leg.

Barsad peeks around such a corner, then turns back to John and presses his finger to his lips: _Quiet._ Then, silently as a ghost, he advances. John hears scuffling footsteps and a muffled cry. He glances around the corner to find Barsad laying an unconscious guard gently down on the floor.

_Fuck, that guy knows what he’s doing._

Barsad waves him forward, leading him  deeper in the bowels of the sewers. The light begins to fade as they leave the occupied tunnels behind them. Darker, darker, and darker still until it’s almost pitch black. John has no idea how Barsad can see.

“Where are you?” John whispers when he starts to get freaked out. He feels like the sewers are swallowing him alive.

“Here,” Barsad whispers back, grabbing John’s hand and squeezing it. “I’m here. Come on.”

John lets Barsad guide him through the blackness, keeping his other hand on the wall so he doesn’t feel so lost in the dark. He hears the rushing of water next to him; there must be a waterway running alongside their path. John’s eyes are starting to adjust, but even still he can just barely make out anything at all.

“Stop, stop,” Barsad whispers.

“What? Where are we? Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“You think so?”

Barsad walks up to a door and pushes at the handle. Locked. He shakes it a few times, but it doesn’t budge.

“This was it….” he says, sounding small.

They’re at a dead end.

 Barsad looks like he’s about to try to body slam the door open, but John stops him.

“Christ Barsad. You’ll puncture a lung. Don’t you know when to quit? John mutters. “Let me try.”

Barsad relents and moves out of the way. John tries once, twice....nothing. He’s about to give it another go when Barsad says, “I think there’s another way.”

Barsad  kicks a rock into the water, listening for the plop. “Take this,” he says, handing John his bag.  He lowers himself down into the trench, landing with an audible splash and a grunt. 

_Nope, this guy doesn’t know when to quit._

“It’s not deep” he says. “Pass me the bag.”  John can barely see him, but lowers it down somewhere in the direction of Barsad’s voice.

“Should I…..?”

“Yeah, come down. I think I need your help.”

John sits himself at the edge and slides off. It’s a lot farther of a drop that he expected, but Barsad catches him with a wince of pain.

“That wasn’t necessary,” John grumbles as Barsad sets him down into the knee-deep water. “Your arm is injured.”

Barsad says nothing and sloshes over to the end of the pit. In the darkness, John can see that the waterway leads into a barred off tunnel running parallel to the locked door above them.

“What now? You going to hacksaw it?”

“No, that would take too long. The bars are too thick.”

“Then what?”

“Take this,” Barsad holds out his bag and John does.

Barsad strips off his jacket, then his shirt underneath. He then puts his jacket back on.

“What are you doing?”

Barsad dunks his shirt in the water. “Pass me the crowbar,” he says. He wraps the wet shirt around two of the bars, knotting the ends, and threads the crowbar through the loop.

“That couldn’t possibly work.” John says as Barsad begins to twist.

“It’ll work.” Barsad can only manage a few rotations on his own before he begins to looks strained.

“Well here, fuck, let me take this end,” John says as Barsad struggles to make another rotation of the crowbar. Slowly but surely, the bars begin to bend.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” John mumbles. “You’re like, MacGyver or something.”

“Who’s that?”

_Christ, Barsad, do you live under a rock?_

“Never mind.”

“This side now,” Barsad says as he untwists his shirt. They repeat the process on the next set of bars, resulting in an opening that’s just barely big enough for John to squeeze through.  He has to twist himself at a strange angle, but once John clears his shoulders he’s able to drag the rest of his body through the bended bars.  He can't think of a time when he was more thankful for being thin.

 Barsad, however, is too broad to be able to fit.

“Suck it in,” John says, nervous that Barsad won’t be able to follow him.

“I won’t fit.  Go around and see if you can unlock the door from the other side. I’ll wait.”

John steadies himself. “Okay. Okay, I’ll be back. I’ll come back for you.”

John sloshes down the dark tunnel, barely able to see anything. He reaches another open chamber like the one in which he left Barsad. Running his hand along the trench’s walls, he breathes a sign of relief when he feels exposed rebar sticking out of the stone: a rudimentary built-in ladder. John scrambles up and backtracks to the locked door. It’s padlocked on this side.

John raps softly on the door. “You there?”

“Yeah,” comes the muffled reply.

“I have to hacksaw through the lock, but I think it’ll open.”

“Hurry, John.”

Right.

He feels like it’s taking forever to saw through the damn thing, and it certainly doesn’t help that he can’t fucking see. But eventually, the padlock gives. John unlocks all the deadbolts and the door swings open.

“We’re almost there,” Barsad says, bolting the door behind them and taking John’s hand.

A few more turns down long murky passages and they come to another built-in rebar ladder leading upwards to the surface. Barsad goes first, lifting the manhole above his head with a grunt.

John scrambles up behind him, already too excited to be able to contain himself. Barsad pulls him up through the manhole and John squints. The light is blinding, the air is cool and the November sun is warm on his face.

John almost cries.

_Barsad, you magnificent bastard._

_I’m free._


	14. Chapter 14

John breaks out into a wild laugh. He does a silly turn with his arms outstretched for the hell of it, but thankfully, Barsad interrupts him before he attempts a goddamn cartwheel.

“We’re not safe yet, John. We have to get out of the dock district. Come on.” Barsad hobbles towards a nearby parkade and John jogs behind him. Out here in the sunlight, Barsad looks even worse than he did in the darkness of the sewers, but John hasn't yet heard him breathe a word of complaint.

_Like a fucking Spartan._

As John takes in the cityscape, he can't help but feel like something is amiss. Gotham looks rather eerie, completely devoid of activity.

“Everyone is gone,” John observes.

No, not gone.

_Evacuated._

_Thank God._

 “They must know about the bomb.” Barsad analyzes John’s reaction closely. “But I doubt you had anything to do with that.”

John scratches his hair and shrugs, face beaming with accomplishment.

“Clever…..” Barsad says.

“You should have done a better job guarding me. I could have _escaped_ or something.”

Barsad raises an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, we wouldn't want that."

Once inside the parkade, Barsad picks out a nondescript car, smashes the driver’s window in with the crowbar and unlocks the door. Fishing through his bag, he pulls out a screwdriver, insulated gloves and electrical tape.

_Of course he knows how to hotwire._

“That is so illegal,” John comments dryly, and Barsad smiles.

“I guess you’ll have to arrest me once we get to the police station,” Barsad replies.

John’s heart leaps. “You’re….”

 “Taking you to Gordon, yes.” Barsad finishes as he begins to unscrew the bolts around the ignition.  
  
“Fuck Barsad. I….don’t know what to say…”

Barsad stops for a second to smirk up at him. “You? John Blake? Silenced?”

"Yeah, har har, funny guy.” John grins.

“Almost done,” he says, fiddling with the wires. Every so often he stops and shakes out his left wrist. His patience pays off:  after a few moments the engine roars to life. “There.”

“You are, I think, the most useful person I’ve ever met.”

“I have my moments.”

John makes his way to the other side of the car, moving to open the passenger door. “You’ll have to teach me all this stuff someday.”

 “John,” Barsad begins, suddenly serious, “I have to pass through a blockade to get us out. I don’t think anyone knows we’re gone yet, but if they saw you with me they wouldn't let us through. I need you….” Barsad pauses. “to get in the trunk.”

“Oh,” John says, deflating.

“You still trust me?” Barsad says. He sounds so _hopeful._

 _You have no idea how much_.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Barsad pops the trunk and John climbs in. 

“Today is full of new experiences,” John mutters as he lies down.

 “I won’t take long, I promise.”

John nods and Barsad slams the trunk closed. John immediately hates it - he often gets claustrophobic in small spaces and he has to remind himself to take deep breaths to keep from having another panic attack. The car’s acceleration does nothing to soothe his anxiety.

_Breathe._

_Fucking breathe._

He doesn’t know how long he’s in the trunk; minutes, probably, but it feels like much longer. The car stops and John’s inhales sharply as he hears muffled voices outside.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck….._

They are talking for a long time – _too_ long. John is starting to get worried, but then he feels the car accelerate again and John lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

_Just breathe. Keep breathing._

The idea that they’re doing this, that they’re actually escaping, is enough to make him believe that this will work.

_I’m going to see Gordon again._

_I’m going to make it._

Some time later, the car stops and Barsad turns off the engine. John hears the front door slam closed and shortly after the trunk pops open. Not for the first time that day, John’s blinded by the warm afternoon sunlight.

“We're here,” Barsad says softly.

John looks around. This neighborhood looks familiar - they’re in the alleyway across from GCPD headquarters.

“I don’t think I could get any closer without being shot at," Barsad says. “Once this week was enough."

John grins wildly, wrapping his arms around Barsad in a gentle embrace this time. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he chants into his neck. “God, thank you.” Barsad returns the embrace and sighs against John’s skin. John lets this go on for longer than strictly necessary, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. When he pulls away, Barsad thumbs away at them tenderly.

“Let’s go, then.” John says, turning towards the police station.

Barsad doesn’t move.

“Come on.” John says, tugging at Barsad’s sleeve.

There’s a long awkward silence.

“Tell me you’re coming.”

Barsad looks at the ground. “I can’t.”

John’s heart thumps.

“I was just joking about arresting you,” John says, suddenly nervous. “Gordon could get you amnesty for helping me.”

Barsad shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

John tugs at him a little more insistently. “C’mon, Barsad.  I trust you, don’t you trust me?”

“I’m already a wanted man. There are bounties on my head….. the League would hunt me down if I left. ”

_As if that could stop someone like you._

“I could protect you, Barsad. You could start a new life. A new name, a new identity…I’d help you.”

Barsad’s brows furrow.

“You would?”

“Of course, you idiot, you saved my life,” John exclaims. “You could be a bodyguard, or you could train at the academy or something…..” John falters. What if he’s sick of that kind of life?  John appends: “Or I could find you job doing something else. You don’t have to fight anymore if you don’t want to. You could be a….I dunno. A postman. Whatever. Just come with me, please.”

 For a second Barsad looks like he’s going to take him up on his offer, but then he shakes his head, as if he were snapping himself back to reality. “I can’t, John. I just _can’t.”_

John grits his teeth in frustration. “What, then? What’s your problem?”

Barsad mumbles something incohernt and shuffles his feet.

 “What?”

“I said, I belong with them.” Barsad says haggardly, and then he sighs. “I’m not a good man, John. Didn’t you hear what Talia said? About my initiation, about...” he chokes, “…..about _Vera_. All of that is true. I’ve done terrible things in my life, things I could never atone for. It’s the only life I’ve ever known; Killing is my only skill. No, my _curse.”_ He looks at the ground."I brought you to Bane in the first place."

John grips him by the arms. “Listen. I know you’ve made mistakes, but you’re not an evil man. There’s good in you, I can see it.”

Barsad’s eyes soften. “John…..”

“You’re not like them, Okay? Get that through your thick head. You’re different. You’re not like Bane and you certainly aren’t like Talia. You must come with me.” John swallows. “They’ll kill you when they find out you helped me.”

He tries to pull him, but Barsad seems to be rooted to the ground.

 _If you love me you’ll come with me,_ John wants to say next, but before he has the chance Barsad freezes, silencing John with a raised hand.

“Run, John.”

“What?”

“Go, go now. Go to Gordon.” Barsad says urgently, drawing his gun.

“Not without you.”

Barsad pushes him in the chest in the direction of the station.

“Damn it, John….”

“Not without you…..”  a voice echoes. “How very precious.”

Talia emerges from around a corner, lips set in a firm line. Seconds later, they’re surrounded by her men, guns drawn.

“You surprise me yet again, Barsad,” Talia sneers. “I’ve known of your crush for some time, but I would have never expected you to take it this far. Just give him up, Barsad, and we can forget this whole little incident happened, hmmm? We'll go back to the warehouse, John will return to Bane's bed, and after Gotham is destroyed you will return to your post in Bhutan. Nobody has to know about this little indiscretion.”

“He’s not going back with you.” John hisses. “And neither am I.”

 "I would be a fool to agree to such a thing." Barsad says evenly.

"No, you're no fool," Talia agrees. “Unless, of course, you believe John feels anything for you in return. He’s been manipulating you all this time, can’t you see?  He’s a sneaky, lying slut. He did it to Bane and he’s doing it to you. Tell me, what did he do to melt your icy heart so? Did he spread his legs for you like he spreads them for Bane? Or did he promise you something else…” Talia pats her chest, mimicking a thumping heart.

“That’s not true,” John says hurriedly into Barsad’s ear. “Do you believe me? I….I’m not…”

Barsad smiles softly. “I know, John."

“Even now, he’s feeding you his lies, Barsad." Talia calls. "He is a most consummate actor.”

Barsad straightens himself and turns to face her. “Stop this, Talia. You’re on the brink of your greatest victory and you risk it all by following us here? Your hatred has blinded you, has made you reckless.You’ve put your petty need for revenge over our greater purpose. ” He squares his shoulders. “You are not worthy of your father’s name.”

Talia is stunned at first, but then her face twists into a vicious snarl. "Then the choice is made. Kill them both.”

John braces himself for the onslaught.....except nobody fires. It's perfectly still.

_They don’t want to shoot Barsad. They know that what he says is true._

"I said, shoot them!" Talia screams.

The men look at each other, unsure of how to proceed. John jumps as the first shot is fired....but it’s not directed at either of them.

GCPD stream into the alleyway, firing at the terrorists and drawing their attention away from John and Barsad. In the resulting chaos, Barsad grabs John's arm and pulls him behind a nearby dumpster for cover. Unsheathing his own gun, John fires several shots at Talia’s men, relishing the feeling of finally, _finally,_ being able to fight off his captors.

 Barsad leans against the dumpster, exhausted.

“ Are you alright?” John says in between shots.

Barsad looks over John’s shoulder, ignoring the question.  “Look,” he nods his head in the indicated direction. John cranes his neck.

 “Flank their left side, quickly, before they retreat….”

_Gordon!_

John turns back to Barsad. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back.” He jogs out from behind the dumpster. “Jim! Hey Jim!”

Gordon whirls around at the sound of John’s voice. “John?”

John all but launches himself into Gordon's very surprised arms.

"Jim," John breathes, "Christ, it's good to see you."

Gordon grasps him just as tightly. “What are you doing here?”

“I escaped through the sewers.”

Jim exhales. “Thank God. Thank God, I thought I would have to leave you behind.”

“What?”

"I got your message, John. We found the bomb, it was exactly where you said to look. We took it from their control, but we….we can't stop it from detonating."

John’s eyes widen. “So that’s it then? Gotham will….”

“Gotham will be destroyed, there is not stopping it. But we managed to evacuate the city, like you said we should. That’s what matters. Gotham’s citizens are safe.”

John swallows hard.

_Home….._

Gordon goes on, “We're going to push these sons of bitches back into Gotham proper and trap them there, but we have to hurry, John. We’re not exactly sure when it will detonate."

“Okay. Okay,” John says, feeling at once energized and terrified.

They continue firing on Talia’s men, overwhelming them with artillery and forcing them to fall back.  Once the alleyway is clear, John runs back to the dumpster to check on Barsad. Upon reaching it, John finds that Barsad is nowhere to be seen.

“Barsad?” he calls frantically. “Barsad!”

His heart thumps.

_Surely he didn’t leave with them?_

“Barsad!”

“Here, he’s here!” comes the reply from a side alleyway. John follows the sound of the voice and turns the corner cautiously.

“Drop the gun, John.”

Talia has one hand wrapped around Barsad’s neck and has the other aiming a pistol at his temple. Injured, Barsad is too weak to fight her off.

“Drop the fucking gun or I swear I will blow his brains out.” Talia hisses.

John stops in his tracks.

“Don’t. Don’t do it, John. Shoot her,” Barsad shouts. _“Kill her.”_

John grips his gun until his knuckles turn white.

“Don’t be stupid, pet.” Talia says, deceptively calm. “Drop the gun.”

Barsad has done so much for him; if he died John would never forgive himself. John won’t risk losing him now. John throws his gun aside, keeping his posture confident. No matter what happens, he won’t let her debase him ever again.

Barsad closes his eyes and draws a shaky breath.

“There’s a good boy. I knew you’d make the right decision. Now, here is what we’re going to do. You’re going to let me pass, John. You’re going to give me and my men a ten minute head start, and once I reach our headquarters I’ll dump your precious little boyfriend on the sidewalk for you to collect.”

“Alright, fine.” John keeps his voice steady, “Just don’t hurt him.”

Talia seems to whisper something into Barsad’s ear, and Barsad’s jaw clenches.. In one swift move, he grabs Talia’s forearm, curls himself forward and hurls her onto the ground. Barsad may be injured, but he's still deadly.

Their standoff broken, John rushes to his gun and grabs it off the ground. When he looks back, Talia and Barsad are struggling. She’s on her back and Barsad is straddling her, trying to wrench her gun from her grip. He’s losing – Talia is vicious for her size, and Barsad can’t best her when he’s already weakened. Without thinking, John takes aim –

_**BANG** _

_**BANG** _

_**BANG** _

Barsad collapses on top of Talia and she rolls him off her with a grunt.

_No. NO!_

Talia picks herself off the ground, turning towards John, gun in hand -

_**BANG** _

Talia falls back to her knees, pressing a hand curiously to the blood gushing out of her chest. Her gun clatters to the ground.

John runs over and kicks her onto her back with his foot. She glares up at him, fierce and proud even now.

This is it. This is the woman who had made his life hell for the last few months, who had him raped and imprisoned, _humiliated,_ who sought to destroy everything he knows and loves.

_Even she’s only flesh and blood._

“You won,” Talia whispers.

John raises his chin and looks down at her. “Yes. I won.” He takes aim for her for head.

_**BANG** _

Talia’s head rolls back, lifeless.

John doesn’t have time to savor his victory. He rushes over to where Barsad is lying on the ground.

“Oh, God,” he gasps, kneeling down next to Barsad.  Talia had hit him twice, once in the chest, once in the shoulder. She must have pierced an artery because blood is drenching his already stained jacket. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” John takes off his coat and presses it down on Barsad’s wounds to try and stop the bleeding.

“Help!” John cries at the top of his lungs. “Help, somebody, help us!” he turns back to Barsad. “Hang in there, ok? Just, hang on.”

Barsad groans.

“John!”

John lifts his head to see Gordon pull up in an armored SUV. “The bomb is going to go off. We have to leave, now.”

“Not without him,” John says firmly. “I won’t leave him.”

“John we don’t have time….”

“He saved my life, Jim, so either help me move him or just save yourselves.”

“Just go, John,” Barsad says shakily as he clutches John’s coat to his chest.  
  
“Shut up, Barsad.” John says, but his tone is affectionate. “I’m going to get you out of here, you’re going to be fine.” John turns to Gordon. “Help me move him, _please,_ Jim.”

 Gordon grumbles, then relents. “Alright, back it up,”

 The SUV pulls up next to Barsad’s body and two GCPD officers hop out.

“Gently, gently,” John orders as they heave Barsad up on the count of three, laying him down in the back of the SUV.

That’s when he hears the blood-curdling roar.

Bane is standing at the opposite end of the alleyway overlooking Talia’s lifeless body. More of his men rush to his side, readying their guns. John meets Bane’s eyes and John a chill settles deep in his bones. He won’t go back to him. He _won’t._

 “Go, go go go go go!” John yells. “Fuck! Go, goddamnit!”

The doors are still partially open when the driver begins to accelerate. John barely catches a glimpse of Bane getting into the back of his armored vehicle before the SUV turns a corner.

“They’re following us,” John shouts to the driver. “Fuck, lose them!”

“We can’t lose them, they know where we’re going,” Gordon shouts back. “Lincoln bridge. It’s the last bridge out of Gotham proper. We’ve rigged it to blow - we’re going to trap these bastards on Gotham island when the neutron bomb goes off.”

“What? When will the bridge blow?”

Gordon checks his watch.

“In six minutes and twenty-two seconds,” he says. “Whether we’ve crossed it or not.”

_Oh, fuck._

John looks down at Barsad to try and soothe himself. Somehow, even now, Barsad’s face is calm and assuring. “Stay with me, Barsad. Just hang on.”

When John looks out the window, he can see Bane’s vehicle in the distance.  
  
“Faster, fuck! They’re gaining on us!”

“I’m trying, Jesus,” The driver shouts back, flustered.

Gordon's holding a walkie talkie to his face, but John can’t hear what he’s saying over the rumbling noise of the SUV. “The other GCPD units have cleared the bridge,” Gordon says triumphantly. “Most of Bane’s men are still held back in Gotham proper. We can still make it.”

“How much time is left?”

Gordon checks his watch. “Three minutes and thirty four seconds.”

John thinks he squeezes Barsad’s hand a little too tightly and Barsad smiles up at him.

_Just who is supposed to be comforting who, here?_

The driver makes another turn and Lincoln bridge comes into view, still intact.

“We’re going to make it.” Gordon shouts.

John’s gripping Barsad’s hand so tightly he loses feeling in his fingers.

 The driver accelerates once they reach the vast straight expanse of the Lincoln bridge road, pushing the SUV to its limits. They are just beginning to cross when Bane’s vehicles appear some distance behind them. Two thirds of the way down the bridge, the charges begin to set off.

 “Hold on,” the driver yells.

Behind them, successive explosions are detonating down the length of the bridge. The concrete moans and cracks underneath them and within a few seconds the entire middle section of the bridge collapses into the river. Bane’s vehicle convoy stops abruptly on the opposite side of the newly created chasm. Without so much as a pause, the terrorist hop out of their armored vehicles and take aim at the retreating SUV with their rocket launchers. Just as they’re about to fire, however, Bane raises his arm, and the terrorists lower their weapons.

John can’t believe it.

_Bane’s letting me go._

John doesn’t have time to consider this properly, because the neutron bomb is still set to go off any minute.  When it will detonate – and whether they’ll be far enough to survive –

 “We made it across,” John says to Barsad, trying to focus on something other than the words _vaporize, incinerate_ or _nuclear fallout_. Barsad’s eyes are beginning to glaze over and blood is gurgling from his lips. “Stay with me, Barsad, please.”

They see the light before they hear it. The windows flare brighter than John could ever imagine possible and John curls in on himself, squeezing his eyes closed with both palms pressed against his ears. The blast rattles his very _core,_ deep inside the marrow of his bones.The SUV jolts with the force of the deafening shockwave, swerving off the road precociously. After the initial blast came the aftershock: a deep, low rumble that’s reverberating through the very earth itself.  

When the flash dies down somewhat, John hazards a look back towards Gotham. The tell-tale mushroom cloud unfurls over the city, awesome and terrible. The sky burns an apocalyptic red, ablaze with flame and smoke.

Gotham is utterly obliterated.

All of its stately skyscrapers, its slums and its posh hotels, its streets and parks and café, John’s apartment and shitty car and everything he’s ever known -  reduced to cinder in mere seconds.

It may not have been perfect, but it was John’s home, for better or for worse. And now nothing remains but ashes.

 “Jesus….” Gordon utters.

The other men are visibly relieved, but nobody feels like celebrating. They sit in silence as the SUV speeds down the deserted highway, watching the cloud rise into the sky like an ominous beacon. Eventually, they’re so far away that the mushroom cloud is nothing but a distant mar on the horizon.

Too exhausted to hold himself up anymore, John folds himself over Barsad’s body, trying to keep a steady pressure on his wounds. Despite his best efforts, the blood seeps through the coat onto John’s hands, no matter how much John wills it to stop. It’s like Barsad is slipping away from beneath John’s fingertips and John is powerless to do anything about it.

_Live. You have to live._

_Live live live.  
_

“Pull over.”

John lifts his head. “What?”

Barsad face is white from loss of blood.  “Please. Have them pull over. I want to lay on the ground.”

John shakes his head.  “We have to keep going. We have to get you to a hospital, you need a blood transfusion, antibiotics……”

 “I’ve spent my life on the run,” Barsad whispers. “ _Please,_ John. Stop the car. Lay me on solid ground.”

John purses his lips. He shouldn’t, but there’s something in Barsad’s eyes, _pleading,_ that gives him pause. “Okay, okay.” he says softly, patting Barsad’s hair. “Pull over,” John shouts to the driver.

“What?”

“I said pull over. Now.”

Gordon turns back to face him. “We can’t stop now, it could be dangerous…”

“Just for a minute, Jim, he needs a break, I think we all do. He’s in pain.”

Gordon sighs and relents, motioning for the driver to stop the car.

“Help us out,” John says. One of the officers pops the hatchback door while the other helps John ease Barsad out of the SUV. They lay him on the grass on the bank of the highway, taking care not to aggravate his wounds. Without thinking, John kneels down next to Barsad and gathers him in his arms. Barsad melts into his embrace.

 “Could you….could you give us a minute?” John croaks. Suddenly the possibility that Barsad might not make it is all too real.

Gordon nods slowly, and the others walk back towards the SUV.

“I’m sorry about Gotham,” Barsad chokes out. “I….it was my fault. I helped bring the bomb to Gotham.”

It hadn’t even occurred to John to be angry with Barsad about that.

“It’s okay,” John says automatically, even though it really isn’t. It _was_ partially Barsad's fault, but John simply couldn’t bring himself to be angry at the man who had risked everything to save his life.

“It was your home.”

“I know,” John says, petting his hair. “I'll make a new home, I guess.”

“..…you’ll be alright, then, John? Tell me you’ll be alright.”

John doesn’t like the direction this conversation is going. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be alright. And so will you, Barsad. You’re going to be just fine.”

“Don’t call me that.”

John furrows his brow, unsure if he heard him correctly. “What?”

 “Barsad. It’s what _they_ called me. I don't want you to call me that anymore.”

“Oh,” John says dumbly. "......okay......"

 Barsad’s voice hitches with each labored breath. “My name is Vasily.”

“Vasily.” John repeats. It feels foreign, but it somehow suits him

Barsad smiles feebly, clutching John’s bloodied coat to his chest. “It was my name... _.before_. It has been many, many years since I’ve been called that.” he whispers, barely audible. He reaches up and strokes John’s cheek. “Now I can be at peace.”

John throat becomes alarmingly tight and he fights to keep himself from choking up. “Don’t fucking talk like that. We are to get you to a hospital, we have to get back in the car and keep going. I’m going to save you, Vasily, I swear.”

Barsad’s eyes glimmer.

“You already have.”


	15. Epilogue

John takes a deep breath.

It’s been seven months since he’s been here last but it feels like much longer. It’s summertime now, the trees are in full bloom and the smell of freshly mowed grass is wafting in the air. There’s a pond with geese on one side of the main path and a row of stately elm trees flanking the other.  After everything Vasily did for him, the least John could do was to bury him somewhere nice.

He feels kind of stupid for not remembering to bring flowers.

“You really shouldn’t have given me this, now I’ll never quit,” John says as he takes out Vasily’s lighter and takes a puff on a cigarette.

John had been the one to take care of the burial arrangements. As far as funerals go, Vasily’s was pretty pathetic - just John, Jim, the priest and a cemetery employee were in attendance. John didn’t know where to begin alerting next of kin, if Vasily even had any. There was no documentation of him anywhere – how could there be?  Records from the former Soviet Union were sketchy at best, especially for those names that were meant to disappear. It was like he had never existed.

John’s the only person who will remember him.

That made deciding what to put on the tombstone a pathetic affair. John had no last name, no country of origin, no birth date. He couldn’t think of a quote that felt right, either – he didn’t think Vasily would appreciate some sappy Hallmark bullshit about being _forever in our heart_ s or whatever.  So instead he had them engrave a simple line drawing of St. Jude the Apostle on the smooth granite.

_Patron saint of lost causes._

Officially, Vasily’s cause of death was listed as blood loss resulting from his gunshot wounds, but the coroner’s report revealed the extent of the damage Vasily had suffered at Bane’s hands: severe internal trauma, two fractured ribs, sprained left wrist, a major concussion.  
  
He must have suffered through an _exorbitant_ amount of pain to save him.

“Sorry I didn’t come sooner….but I’ve been busy. Really busy. Awards ceremonies and stuff. Check it out – I was awarded the President citizen’s medal for my bravery during the Gotham Disaster. I got to go to the White House, Vasily. I shook the president’s hand. And this one  - the Public Safety Officer Medal of Valor. They said that without my information, they would have never found the bomb in time. They said I helped save the lives of tens of thousands of Gothamites. I know, right? Fuck. Seems to me like Gordon did all the real work. But you should have been there, Vasily. I’ve never seen Gordon so proud……. and the reception food was so much better than the shit you guys used to serve me.

 “I’ve been seeing a therapist about the PTSD, and I think it’s getting better. The exposure treatments are hard, but worth it. I haven’t had any flashbacks this week, although last Tuesday I had a pretty bad panic attack. I’m on meds for it now.  I find going outside helps me to deal with my anxiety, and I’ve taken up running. Yeah, I know. I gotta quit smoking again.

 “Anyways, I just came to say goodbye. I’m going to Europe. I always wanted to go, never worked up the balls, but now fuck it, you know? You only live once. Gordon says there will be a position waiting for me over at the LAPD if I wanted…..but I think I need a break, to get away for awhile. I don’t know when I’ll be coming back. Maybe I’ll do some volunteering overseas…..there’s so much out there to see and to do.”

John crouches down next to the tombstone. He kisses his hand and presses it against the cool stone, fighting the tightness in his throat.

                _Vasily_

_c.1973 – November 14th, 2011_

 “I’m going to be alright.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there it is, my first real fanfic! And what a cheesy sentimental ending, yeesh. I hope you guys liked it! I wanted to give back to the community for all the wonderful stories I’ve been reading and enjoying over the last few months.  
> I don’t really think of myself as much of a writer (Some of the authors here are AMAZING and I cower before their greatness) and I know this piece needs work. I will probably go back and edit/rewrite/add to some of the scenes – some of them don’t flow the way I’d like. I was never intending for this to be as long as it is, so I'd also go back to the beginning and adjust certain scenes to make the whole thing a little more cohesive.  
> Feedback and CCs are most welcome! I do want to make my writing better, so if you have any suggestions please let me know. I’m just starting out in fanfiction and could use the advice.  
> You can catch up with me on [Tumblr](http://maryjanenobody.tumblr.com/) if you are so inclined! 
> 
> Thank you everyone who read, left kudos and commented! Love ya’ll <3<3<3  
> Xoxo Teresa


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